The Quiet Man
by PADavis
Summary: Dean is speechless. A ‘Strine fugly and a hunt takes a toll on both brothers. Terry is totally responsible for this as I’m sure she is for many things. Rated T for embarrassingly and excessively foul language for which the fugly is totally responsible.
1. He’ll Never Make That Shot, Mate

So I finish _OBX_, and Terry says, wouldn't you pretty please do Mute Dean now? So instead of writing the fic I was planning, all I can think about is Mute Dean. The cursing is justified, I assure you, by research and fugliness. Herein you will find some minor references to both _OBX_ and _Mesmerize_. This story is complete. It is 7 chapters in length, and I plan to post on Fridays.

A/N 2: Beta'd by the lovely trio of Merisha, Muffy Morrigan, and Scotia, the Sam girl with a wicked sense of humor, who keeps saying she doesn't like Hurt!Anybody but likes what I write.

A/N 3: SNFA has posted a Reader's Choice Contest. Please visit the site at sensue dot net slash sfna and vote for your favorite.

This is set between _Wishful Thinking_ and _I Know What You Did Last Summer_. All of aired S4 could be used but nothing beyond _Heaven and Hell_ and even that is used only if you squint and hold your head sidewise.

Disclaimer: Tragically, with a Greek, or possible Shakespearean, scope, not mine. They belong to Kripke, WB, and the CW. Which is a good thing, because I'd probably whump Dean in every single episode.

* * *

"Who does that little shit think he is?"

"Which little shit, Dean? All you short people look the same to me." Sam looked seriously at his big brother.

"You lofty bitch. Not all of us main-lined growth hormone in high school. The little shit I'm currently referring to is that short ugly dude making up to Marian … Maureen … Mildred – well one of those M names. Over at the bar." Dean swung his arm in a broad arc, almost upsetting a tray of pints and a pitcher being carried past their table. The waitress side-stepped, effortlessly dodging the arm, smiled briefly at Sam, and moved on, not spilling a drop of beer.

Sam leaned over and snagged Dean's arm. "Whoa, little fella."

"Well, look at her. Making eyes at the guy. Do you see the way she's leaning across the bar?" Dean spun his head back to Sam. "Martha and I are going out later and she's practically crawling into that guy's lap."

"So you are going out later. Seems to me that she's been flirting with most of the guys in the bar."

"Yeah, but it's me picking her up when she gets off at two." Dean snorted. "As long as she's just flirting." He tried to catch the bartender's eyes, but she didn't look up. He took another long swallow of beer.

Sam moved Dean's glass to the side. "She probably doesn't want to go out with a drunk guy if she's been serving them all night."

Dean's eyes had tracked the glass, but that brought his attention back to Sam. He quirked a smile, and said, "Good point. Want to play darts? A game of pool?"

Sam stood, peering over the crowd. "There's no one over by the pool tables."

Dean nodded, and was on his feet, angling back to the tables before Sam had a chance to pick up his beer. He snagged Dean's glass as well. Maybe he could win a game if Dean had another beer or ten.

Dean had racked the balls by the time Sam arrived. He hissed in Dean's ear, "No hustling tonight."

Dean looked a little wistful, but just shrugged. "I just want to play a game. And, we still have money left over from the Smithson's case." He removed the triangle, grabbed two cues, and tossed one to Sam. "Shoot for the break?" He set the cue ball to one side, looking at Sam expectantly.

Sam waved him on. "I'll break next game."

Dean won the first game. When Sam broke for the second, he got a pocket and took stock of the table. He only saw one shot, and went for it, laughing a bit loudly when he not only made it, but the next shot, before a fumble lost the pocket but tucked the cue up behind the eight ball to finish. He lifted his glass toward Dean in a mock salute.

"Let's see you get out of that one." He took a large mouthful of beer.

"He'll never make that shot, mate, he's too much of a fucking buffoon. Can't play worth shit. All macho crap, no balls."

Sam was so surprised he inhaled his beer. He heard Dean say "What the … ", and Dean's quick steps approaching. Sam felt a strong arm wrap around his chest, and some hard thumps on his back. He waved Dean off when he could take in a breath, and straighted. He wiped his streaming eyes. Sam pulled up a smile, and took a huge gulp of air.

Dean put a hand on his shoulder. "Y'OK?"

Sam nodded and looked around for the owner of the voice. Dean was already on his way, stopping in front of the little shit from the bar. The same little shit that was now wearing an infuriatingly smug grin and the bartender, Dean's date, as arm candy.

Sam thought the little guy would back up – his brother towered over both him and the waitress, and he knew just how menacing Dean could be – but the guy just kept grinning and stood his ground. Sam took a couple of long steps to come up to stand behind his brother, and put a hand on one shoulder.

They'd attracted a little attention, and Sam felt and heard the attention shift to them. The jukebox suddenly kicked in and someone yelled on the far side of the building. The noise level rose and most of the crowd's attention went back to their own business. Sam looked quickly around. He didn't see any threats except the little man in front of Dean. And, of course, Dean's calm, rational behavior.

Dean leaned over – the guy's eyes were probably level with his belt buckle. "What the hell? I didn't do anything to you – we're just minding our own business. Playing a game. If you can't see over the rails," he gestured toward the pool table, "you could have asked for a stool."

"Making mock of small people is just what I would expect from a donkey's ass like you." The small man proceeded to tell Dean off fluently, comprehensively, and expansively, using a string of obscenities in which Sam was pretty sure he identified five languages. The guy's accent was broad, and teasingly familiar. It was an impressive performance - no repeats, inventive, and delivered with bravado.

The little guy finished by fondling the bartender's breasts openly, making her squirm, and saying to Dean, "so, mut, as to who this 'little shit' thinks he is, he thinks he's the one with a big enough donga to fuck Megan here and her sister at the same time", he licked his lips suggestively, "while you go home with this guy, who might actually have a sack." He pointed at Sam.

Sam stared. The little man couldn't have heard their conversation from the other side of a crowded bar. Something was off. He looked back at his brother and watched Dean straighten his shoulders and shake his arms out. Crap, he was getting ready for a fight. Sam felt his stomach drop.

Dean raised his eyebrows, and asked seriously, "You really call _that_ a vocabulary? Most of that wasn't even in English. My dad could take you on a _bad_ day. In one language." He glanced at Sam. "Couldn't he, Sam?" He snapped his fingers. "Dad could've so take this nimrod, right?"

Sam felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah, Dad was really good, a master, best of the best."

The man didn't even glance at him, just kept looking at Dean. "Oh, now I'm scared. Your Dad? What, you going to run home crying? Is your Daddy going to protect you?" He looked up at Megan. "Look at the big man, scared of a little guy like me."

Sam glanced at his brother, then shook the shoulder he was holding. "Dean, come on, let it go. You're going to have a stroke." He shook Dean's shoulder again. "Dude, take a breath or something."

Sam stepped in front of Dean and addressed himself to the gadfly. "I don't know what you are trying to prove, but if you heard my brother, then you must have also heard that he has had a little too much to drink. We're just going to play pool, right, Dean?" He snapped his fingers this time. "Right, Dean?"

Dean didn't take his eyes off the guy, but he nodded slightly.

"And we are going to go back to our game, while you go off and do whatever you want to do." He leaned back, pushing his shoulder against Dean's, trying to break the stare. He said softly, "Come on, Dean, let this one go. There's something weird going on here."

Dean took a step back, finally cutting his eyes to Sam. "Yeah, you're right. Don't know what I was thinking, letting a little thing like that", waving toward the man, "upset me. I'm _bigger_ than that. Way bigger." He smirked, then turned back to the pool table and took a sip of beer, before picking up his cue stick and running chalk over the tip.

The bar volume dropped a little bit and Sam heard a song started up on the jukebox. He rubbed his temples and groaned when he realized it was "_Short People_". Sam caught Dean's eye and they both started to laugh. Maybe someone in the bar had noticed the little guy. He looked back and checked down around his knees to find the little man. "You should go, before things get out of hand."

Unfazed, the guy turned and clicked his tongue at Megan, and spoke to her, pitching his voice toward Dean. "We're going to find your sister, aren't we? Have a lot of fun, too. You never knew how much you wanted to have sex with your sister, did you?"

Megan shook her head, her eyes wide. "I hadn't thought about it before, but yeah, now that you said something … I can't wait. It's really going to piss off her husband."

Smirking over his shoulder, the man leered back at Dean. "Bet you've thought about screwing your brother a time or two, you faggot." When Dean didn't react, the man took a step forward. "You have, haven't you? You would if you could …"

Sam jumped in. "Whoa, ease up, man. He wouldn't, I wouldn't. We're just trying to play a game of eight ball. And you have a hot date." He stepped in front of Dean, casually, and pointed out the door. "I really think you need to leave."

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dean. He was still by the table. Sam turned back only to watch in relief as the guy started toward the door. He came back to the table and took the chalk out of Dean's hand. "Man, there's going to be more chalk than cue in a minute. I'll go get us a beer, OK?"

Dean nodded, and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, that would be super." He rubbed the back of his neck, and then shook his head ruefully. "And I thought I had a foul mouth. That little prick takes the cake."

Sam turned, and said, despairingly, "Oh, no." The little man was walking back. Sam held out his arm and blocked Dean from passing him. Addressing the suicidal munchkin, Sam said, "Look, neither one of us wants to get physical with someone who barely comes up to our kneecaps. But if you don't get out of here now, I won't make any promises."

Finally the guy looked straight at him. "Shut up, Man Mountain." He pointed at Dean, "I'm not done with that one." The little bastard craned his head around, and caught Dean's eyes. "Hiding behind your brother, you big pansy assed fairy?"

Dean pushed at Sam's arm, but didn't move forward. He growled, "Why are you on my case? You got the girl, or girls, you've called me every name under the sun, and I haven't belted you once, since you're just so … small. So, what do you have against me in particular, Tiny?"

"Not so much you in particular, asswipe, just swaggering, overbearing, bloody pinheads like you in general. Fuck, you are so easy, I can feel your blood pressure rising from here. It's like taking candy from a baby." When Dean snorted, the guy held up an admonishing finger, "Just one more thing to say."

Dean muttered, "This'll be rich."

Sam, more spooked by the minute, said, "No. That's it. You are done. You're leaving. You don't get to say one more thing to either of us." Sam pushed his brother back and stepped forward, feeling his temper rising. "Get _out_ of here."

The man continued to stare at Dean intently. "So, not your brother. If not him … oh, I get it. You're a _mamma's_ boy, aren't you? Tied to the apron strings by your tiny dick and balls, aren't you? A real wanna-be mother fu-"

Sam barely had time to register that Dean was moving before the man was flat on the ground, Dean standing over him, hands fisted.

Dean hissed, "Not. Another. Word."

The man got up on his feet, totally unrepentant, and grinned gleefully at Dean, his eyes unnaturally bright. The man pointed at Dean and said, "_Done_."

Sam rubbed his ears. He thought he'd heard an echo. Crap, crap, crap. This was so screwed! He stepped forward and began herding the man out of the bar, pushing both him and the bartender toward the door. "I will carry you out of here if I have to, but you are leaving, _now_."

The little man moved forward. "I'm going, I'm going." He held up a hand to point to the wall near the bar. "Megan, dear, get my stick." She darted off, returning with a walking stick almost as tall as Sam.

Once he had them outside, Sam pointed at the stick. "Compensating for something?"

"Don't start something with me, you monumental dick. My business was with Dean." He brushed off his sleeves, and slapped a hand on Megan's rump. "I wanted to fuck with your brother almost more than I want to fuck the incest twins here."

"You know us? Well, you don't get to mess with him. I'll make sure of it."

"Your brother know that, Sam? That his whiny, emo, demon-fucking little brother is protecting him? Why don't I get back in there and tell him …"

Sam reached down, put one hand over the man's mouth, and used the other to pick the guy up by his belt. He saw Megan standing by an ancient Z80 and walked over, swinging the man like a sack of potatoes. When he reached the car, he sat the man down with a thump on the car's hood. He leaned in, and over, the man. This time _he_ went menacing.

"You want one Winchester, you get us both. Leave me and my brother alone."

"Whatever you say – I was only interested in Dean, but if you're serious about this … I'm more than glad to _deal_ with you both." He leaned forward and tapped Sam's cheek. "_Done_. That's so you two arse monkeys can share."

Sam batted his hand away. "Not this crap, again. Just get the hell out of here."

"We're going. But, Sam, really, you are such pretty boys, both of you. Have you ever thought about your brother …"

Sam turned, deliberately rolling his shoulders and shaking his hands out of fists, and headed back to the bar.

"One more thing." The voice was right in his ear, like the guy had grown a couple of feet since he turned around. He froze in place. "If you two ever change your mind about fucking each other, I want to be the first to know. Call me. 22 62 72 62."

Sam stopped and watched as the car drove out of the lot and took a right onto the main drag, heading south. When it was out of sight, he pulled out his notebook and pen, and scribbled the number down. Not a phone number, eight numbers, repeating 2's … it must be some kind of equation. Dean would know. He turned and went back into the bar and to the pool table. Dean wasn't in sight. He shrugged and took their empty glasses to the bar.

As he stepped up to order, the beefy guy behind the bar scowled at him. Sam almost turned around to see if there was someone behind him.

"Two drafts." He dropped a few bills on the counter.

The man continued to glare. "You're friends with that other guy, right? You were playing pool with him."

Sam was genuinely puzzled. "Yeah, what of it?"

"We don't think much of big guys picking on little guys here, is all. He punched that dwarf." He started to wipe the counter. "Not sure we want you two in here."

Sam opened his mouth to try to explain, but had to bring himself up short. "Not a problem. It won't happen again. Can we have a couple of beers?"

"I'll think about it. Your pal went to the latrine a few minutes ago", he jerked his thumb toward the back of the bar, "and hasn't come out yet. You bring him out here, and then I'll decide."

Sam nodded, retrieved his money, and headed toward the bathrooms. He pushed the door open, and saw Dean staring in the mirror and rubbing his throat.

"Great job, Dean. You lost your temper, again. We get invited to leave a bar. Again." He waited a count but Dean didn't react. Sam stepped up beside Dean and caught his eyes in the mirror. "What?"

Dean looked toward him, then back to the mirror, frowning. He stretched his jaw and cleared his throat. "Felt like there's was something stuck in my throat." He turned to face Sam. "And yeah, maybe I shouldn't have hit that guy, but he deserved it."

Sam was on the floor before he even registered the pain. He clutched his head, pressing his palms against his ears. The noise was driving spikes through his head.

Dean pulled him off the floor, holding him up roughly by his biceps. "Sam! What's wrong?"

He cried out again, all too aware that if Dean wasn't holding him up, he'd be right back on the floor. "God, Dean. My ears! What is that? Do you hear it?"

Sam knew Dean spoke, but he couldn't make out anything over the lancing pain in his head. He blinked to clear his eyes and brought Dean's face back into focus. Dean's mouth moved and he groaned in pain. He felt something wet on his hand. Dean tried to catch his arm, but he pulled loose, drawing the hand in front of his eyes. It was red with blood. He pulled the other away from his ear. Blood on both hands.

"Sam! What's going on?"

Something new, a new sound, reverberated through his head, spiking pain through his eyes. He heard himself screaming, then everything turned white.


	2. We Haven’t Hurt Anyone Here

A/N: My beta's are awesome, patient, and kind. They also didn't see this final version of the chapter. All remaining errors are mine.

* * *

When Sam went boneless, Dean threw himself between his brother and the floor, falling on his knees to catch him on his way down. What the hell had just happened? And where had the blood on Sam's hands come from?

Dean saw red on Sam's jaw line, trailing down his neck, staining his collar. God – suddenly the sense of déjà vu was so overwhelming he almost stopped breathing. Sam's head rolling on his shoulder, the coppery warm smell of blood … He was suddenly scrabbling at Sam's lower back, tugging at his shirt, and running a hand down his spine. Dean blew out a shaky breath when his hands didn't come back wet with blood.

He felt the tension leave him in a rush, and sat back, pulling Sam around to rest against his shoulder and arm. He found himself staring at the blood on Sam's shirt. He'd bought Sam that shirt at a Goodwill store in … hell, years ago, in Maine or Minnesota – north at least. Dean had joked with him tonight that it had gotten so threadbare it was see-through. He had planned to hit a charity clothing place near the motel tomorrow anyway.

Sam hadn't ever been much for buying clothes. Dean still couldn't get over what Sam bought when he wasn't supervised. That dog shirt, or the shirt with the brain thing with chicken legs. He hoped Jessica had dressed the kid in California. It looked like Sam hadn't bought anything since Dean had _(gonetohellbeeninthepit)_ died. Or washed anything. Dean fingered a mend he'd put in the collar months ago. He'd make sure not to buy anything in red and black.

He gingerly moved Sam's head and was rewarded with blood on his fingers – fuck, Sam was bleeding from his ears. The bathroom door opened with a squeal. Dean looked up in surprise. He'd almost forgotten where he was. He assessed the intruder quickly – white, soft in the gut, balding – and dismissed him as quickly. He ran a hand through his hair and looked back down at his brother and tapped his cheek. Maybe if he ignored the rube, the rube would leave him alone long enough to get his brother upright and out the door. Instead, he heard an indrawn breath.

"Oh, crap, you _are_ gay. Did you jump him?"

That brought his eyes back up. He frowned. "Did I what? No. I don't know what happened, he just went down."

The man's eyes were wary as he backed toward the door, blindly reaching for the handle.

"Seriously, man, I didn't hurt him. He's my brother." Sam twitched and Dean's arms tightened automatically. "Hey, Sam, can you get up?"

Sam's eyes moved erratically under his lids, and he gasped, hands jerking. He breathed out, "Stop, stop, stop."

Dean heard the door open, and looked up in time to see the doughy guy stick his head out into the passageway, and yell, "Joe! Neal! Need help in here!"

"Thanks, man, but I don't need help getting him to the car." Sam was almost writhing in his arms. "Come on, Sam, we have to get you off the floor."

The doughy guy looked back at Dean – anger the most evident emotion. "I'm not helping you, jackass. That guy," he pointed at Sam, "is the one who needs help. So, hitting someone half your size wasn't enough for a big, strong, guy like you?"

Dean could almost see the sarcasm dripping off the words. "What, you think I moved onto someone taller for a nightcap? He's my brother, _my brother_, you asshole." He didn't get further before the door was pushed open and several brawny guys came in. One was holding a baseball bat.

Dean didn't want to put Sam down, but when two of the guys stepped forward, he reacted instinctively. He took a position over his brother. He straightened, pulling his shoulders back, automatically moving his weight forward.

"Let's just calm down here." He held up his hands, palms out. "My brother," he said, pointing, "is hurt. Something happened to him. I'm just going to get him to the car, and get help. We'll be out of here in a minute."

Sam gasped, and his eyes opened. "No, stop, Dean, please stop ... the noise …"

A guy that made Sam look tiny stepped up, but Dean stood his ground, strong arming the bruiser back a step. The others circled around him. He couldn't get his back to a wall, since that would leave Sam exposed.

"Come on, guys, there's nothing going on here, my brother and I will leave just as soon …" One came at him from the front, some more from each side, and he felt movement behind him, but hampered by his desire to protect Sam, he didn't move, just held his position and hammered anyone that got close to him. He felt and heard something hit his arm, then his shoulder, and then felt blinding pain in his head, and he was down for the count.

When he could pry his eyes open, everything around him was too bright, and too loud, and wherever he was, it was spinning in a nauseating fashion. He closed them again. He could hear people talking, but they were all going at once and he couldn't make any sense of it. It came back to him in a rush. Five guys, one Dean. No surprises there. The surprise was that he was in a chair. He heaved until his head came up, but regretted it instantly. He put a hand to his head, and hissed when he felt the bump. The sound around him increased and a pair of heavy hands landed on his shoulders.

"Get your hands off me. And let him go, you idiots. He didn't do anything to me. He's my brother!"

Sam sounded pretty rough, but he was awake, and that was a huge relief. Dean cracked his eyes open again, and tried to straighten up. Nobody got to hurt Sammy, not even this new, weird, post-hell version of him.

"After his performance earlier, we aren't taking anything for granted." Another voice piped up. "Why haven't we called the police? He beat this poor guy until he bled." More voices chimed in, one on top of the other, until a single voice blasted them all to silence.

"Shut up, all of you!"

Dean looked around blearily, finally catching sight of Sam over by the wall. "Sam?" Even he barely heard that. He cleared his throat, and tried to stand, but the hands on his shoulders pinned him to the chair. "Sam! Are you OK?"

The reaction was immediate and terrifying. Sam pitched forward, screaming, hands batting at his ears. "Dean, god, Dean! Stop!"

"What have you done to him?" He heard a choked gasp from Sam before a hand pressed over his mouth, hard, almost gagging him.

"We didn't do anything to him. He was fine until you opened your mouth."

Sam was just barely standing, using a wall to prop himself up. That was just fucking it. He waited a moment for the room to stop spinning, and then jerked forward, feeling the hands on his face and shoulders drop away. He kicked back, coming to his feet, and slammed the chair backwards hard enough that he heard a grunt of pain from behind him. A few quick steps, a judiciously placed elbow, and he was between Sam and the rest of the bar, his boot knife reflecting the overhead lights.

"I don't know what is going on …" he stopped and staggered as Sam suddenly moaned and passed out, his weight falling onto Dean's back, arms swinging loosely. Dean had to take a step or two forward, but the knife was rock steady. "Enough is enough. You heard him. We", he pointed to Sam and himself, "are leaving." He jerked Sam up and over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, grunting as he settled the weight.

He walked toward the door, only taking time enough out of his trip time to knock a cell phone out of its owner's hand. "Forget us, forget him, it's none of your business. No one come after us. No one calls the police. We haven't hurt anyone here," he smiled a little, "much." With a final glare, he backed toward the door, walked through, and hoofed it over to the Impala. His brother was way too big to be doing this.

"Come on, Sam, wakey wakey. Tell me what the fuck is going on!"

He got no reply. He deposited Sam in the front seat, ran to the driver's side and got in, halting Sam's slow slide down the upholstery. He held him up long enough to get settled, set Sam's head on his thigh, and booked out of the parking lot and back to the motel.

Sam didn't budge when he extricated himself. He packed their room quickly and efficiently. Sam may have been the OCD poster boy for neatness, but Dean, he was the packer. It was something he was really good at, even if neither Dad nor Sam ever noticed. He grimaced. He wouldn't be so skillful, if Dad hadn't forced them to move so quickly, so often. Dean'd even packed Sam's bags for Stanford. Sent him off with a new top of the line laptop, which had melted in the fire … _shit, don't think fire, you fucking moron_.

He looked out the window. Sam hadn't moved and the lot was quiet. With a last sweep – shower curtain pushed back, check, drawers opened and slammed shut, one, two, three, check, and covers thrown off the bed. Check. He only remembered his head when he ducked down to check under the beds and the dresser. And it was worth the spin and nausea because yahtzee, there was Sam's missing family sized sneaker, and then he was out of the room and throwing their duffels in the trunk.

He slid back in the car, and started her, revving just to hear the engine roar. He threw a blanket over Sam, then lifted his brother's head long enough to get his thigh and a pillow underneath him. _When you are awake, Mighty Hunter, you do what you want. While you are unconscious … I get to take care of you. _Dean huffed out a laugh, thinking not only what would his newly badass brother think, but what the creepy little asshole would say to this picture.

They'd left Washington State and were heading east to Lake McConaughey in Nebraska to follow up on a tip from Bobby. They'd stopped in Laramie after driving almost twenty hours, but Laramie seemed like a great place to get out of right about now. He hit I-80 and drove for three hours, stopping twice, the first time to get a twenty ounce cup of black coffee, the second time to piss like a racehorse on the side of the road. Sam barely moved, a twitch now and again, and muttered a little, but only when Dean spoke to him. He had a really bad feeling about this.

He'd made it to Ogallala before the ache in his head and his blurring vision forced him to pick a motel. He was able to rouse Sam enough to walk unsteadily into the room. If he noticed that Dean wasn't speaking, he didn't say anything. Sam seemed willing to be led into the bathroom to have his ears cleaned and the blood washed off his face and neck. Dean tugged off Sam's shirt and threw it in the trash. He silently coaxed Sam to take a couple of Tylenol, tugged off his boots, and rolled him into bed.

Dean looked longingly at the shower but decided to wait. He'd probably fall asleep if he got comfortable. He washed his face and brushed his teeth, and tried not to look too closely at his eyes in the mirror. Every time he did, the terror was back, the _(red/black/panic/red/black/screaming) _flashbacks were killer. He looked at the razor for a minute and dropped it back in his kit. He'd shave in the morning when Sam could talk and distract him.

He reached up and found the knot on his head, and felt another pulse of nausea when he touched it. He tried to look at it sideways, just glancing at the mirror, but gave it up as a bad call. The bump wasn't bleeding, and it wasn't too big, just painful. He was grateful that whoever had the baseball bat had missed their swing.

He pulled an upholstered chair up next to Sam's bed and put his feet up, settling in with a bottle of scotch and a handful of Tylenol. He turned on the TV, but ended up watching endless reruns of hell on the back of his eyelids every time the station went to a commercial. He turned if off and threw the remote on his bed. Sam moved a little, and rolled over, putting his back to Dean. Dean toasted him with the scotch, and had several swallows before he leaned forward, and whispered, as softly as he could, "Sam."

The reaction was immediate. He jerked back when Sam's breathing hitched, and watched his brother throw an arm up and try to bury his head in the pillow. Without thinking, he made a 'hunh' noise in the back of his throat. Sam moved again, and moaned. Well, that was a pisser. He couldn't talk without hurting his brother. Or grunt. Probably no humming. In the morning, he'd find out if he could blow his noise without hurting Sam. Then he was going to find and dismember that little shit. Until then, he was on watch as much for his Sam's sake as his own. If he talked in his sleep, Sam would probably start screaming again.

He must have zoned out, because he didn't notice when Sam woke up. Sunlight was starting to shine in under the curtains. He blinked groggily, and looked at the hand on his shoulder, then followed the arm up to Sam's face.

Sam shook him again. "Dean, man, are you in there?"

He brushed off the arm, and nodded, surprised to see the bottle, mostly full, still in his hand. Best he'd done for a couple of weeks.

"So much for your lightening reflexes. I could have brought in a mariachi band and you wouldn't have noticed."

Dean flipped him off, but smiled as he stretched. He pointed at Sam, then back at his own ears, and raised an eyebrow.

"They feel OK. I can hear fine, not even a headache this morning. What the hell happened last night?" Sam opened the curtains and the sun hit Dean right in the face. He squinted and covered his eyes. "Dean, you look like shit. You didn't sleep?"

Dean shook his head resignedly, and stood up, and damn, if his head didn't remind him of last night. He tried to step back, got tangled in the chair, and sat down again heavily. Sam moved in quickly, and picked up one of his hands, turning it over to see his knuckles, before ghosting a hand over the bump on Dean's head.

"You were in a fight, at the bar … I remember the men's room, and the noise." He poked at his ears. "What did that thing do? Did I hear that because you were talking?"

Dean nodded.

"And that's why you haven't spoken since I woke up."

Dean nodded again.

"Maybe it's worn off?"

Dean shook his head.

"Well, how long since you tried?"

Dean looked at his watch, realized he had no idea, so he shrugged and held up three fingers. Sam looked at him.

"Three hours ago or three AM?"

Dean rolled his eyes. He cleared his throat, and looked at Sam for permission. Sam nodded this time. Dean whispered again, so softly he could barely hear himself. "Sam."

God, it was so much worse when Sam was awake. His brother shuddered, and shouted, "Shit," holding his head with his eyes screwed tightly closed. After a few minutes, he looked up at Dean, and rubbed his ears. "Let's see if distance helps." He tugged on his shoes, and walked to the door. "When I get to the other side of the lot, say something. Don't shout, just say something in a normal tone."

Dean pushed off from the chair and angled toward the door.

"Do you need to sit down again?"

He gritted his teeth, and shook his head, which made it worse, and settled for bracing himself on the door jamb. He waved Sam out of the room. He hadn't told Sam that his hair was all mussed up on one side, and Dean almost forgot and laughed watching Sam loping across the parking lot like some kind of gazelle. Sam reached the other side, and held up a hand.

Dean took a deep breath, and said, "Sam."

Then he was the one running across the lot, only he was more like a lion or some awesome predator, and helped his brother up off his knees. He turned Sam's head and checked his ears for bleeding, breathing out in relief when they were fine.

Sam looked at him intently, and finally said, "I never was good at 'speriments." He shook his head. "_Ex_periments. You do the next one."

Dean pulled Sam's arm over his shoulder and started them both back towards the room. When they reached the curb, Sam stumbled and almost fell. Dean heaved him upright and looked up - the kid's eyes were closed. He reached up and slapped Sam's cheek lightly, until Sam's head jerked up and his eyes opened. Sam looked at him blearily.

"What? What happened?"

Dean pointed at the curb and touched Sam's leg.

"Oh, sorry." Sam got up on the walkway and into the room, getting steadier with each step. After a few minutes on the bed, he pulled off his shoes, grabbed some clothes and walked to the bathroom. "We'll figure this out, Dean. I'm going to take a shower." Dean threw him the bottle of Tylenol after palming a couple, and sat down on his bed. His head was killing him. He rubbed his face. Maybe he could rest for a minute.


	3. One for yes, two for no?

By the time Sam had showered, shaved, and dressed, he actually felt pretty good. The headache was just a fraction of what it had been. The effect of Dean's voice seemed to be all packed in the first few seconds – after that it was just aftershocks. He stepped out of the bathroom, and glanced over to see Dean half on and half off his bed.

He walked over, still running a towel through his hair, and tossed it back towards the bathroom door as he reached the bed. It looked like Dean fell asleep sitting up and had just toppled over sideways. His feet were still on the floor. At least that hadn't changed. Mattresses had always had a magnetic attraction on his brother. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

Since Dean had come back, Dean fell asleep like someone turned out a light. He would lie down, fully clothed, and bang, dead, no, not dead to the world, but asleep. And Sam hadn't been kidding about the mariachi band. These days, Dean slept so soundly that Sam'd been able to stroll out of the hotel room, even driven Dean's car away from the hotel that first night, without waking him. And Dean barely moved anymore while he slept, other than twitching and jerking during nightmares. He stayed huddled up, like he'd been beaten to sleep.

If Castiel hadn't woken him that one time, Dean still might not know about Ruby and Sam's forays. Sam was trying once again to convince himself that his brother knowing and him stopping the exorcisms was a good thing as he bent and lifted Dean's legs onto the bed. Dean didn't wake, just curled up in a tighter ball. Sam tugged Dean's boots off and threw a blanket over him, before sitting heavily on his bed to stare resignedly at his brother. He wanted Dean to sleep like before, like he'd been dropped on the bed, hands and legs in all directions, sometimes hanging off the bed, sometimes touching the floor.

He wanted _Dean_ to be like before. He wasn't sure if Dean even put the knife under his pillow anymore. Sam scrubbed his face and watched this still, quiet version of Dean he'd gotten back from Hell. _What did they do to you for four months?_ He sat for a few more minutes, brooding, until he realized with sudden clarity, that the real question should be, _What DIDN'T they do to you in the pit? _

A few hours later, Dean's nightmares were playing in Technicolor. Sam almost ran to the bed.

"Dean. Wake up. You're having a nightmare."

Dean jerked awake, blinking, his limbs moving spasmodically for a few seconds. Sam held a hand over Dean's mouth until his brother's eyes were on him and aware.

"You awake, Dean? Remember not to talk."

Dean nodded and swatted at Sam's arm. While Dean was sitting up, Sam retrieved the first aid kit, and came back to sit next to him on the bed.

"Let me check your head."

Dean kept still while Sam checked his scalp, and pulled his chin up to check his pupils. Dean raised his eyebrows, and looked a question.

"Doesn't look like a concussion. You have a cut that I'll check after you take a shower. Take these." He held out two pills.

Dean dutifully swallowed the pills and walked to his duffel for a change of clothes. As he walked toward the door, Sam called out,

"No singing in the shower, either."

That got him a one fingered salute.

With a grin, Sam went back to his laptop. He hadn't started seriously researching Bobby's hunt yet, instead looking for clues on the little guy, and doing some research for Dean. He opened a couple of search engines and started some cross referencing while Dean was in the shower. Sam was a little anxious by the time Dean wandered back in the room and sat on his bed to pull on his boots. Sam cleared his throat.

"I made something for you. I read about it in a book and just thought …" Dean circled his hand, and nodded, which Sam recognized as the silent version of Dean's 'keep going, college boy.' Sam sniffed. "I know you aren't really mute, but I thought these might help, makes things easier maybe, just until we can fix this." He presented Dean with a handful of stiff cardboard squares, about two inches a side. One said "Please", another "Thank You", one "Repeat"; he even gave Dean one with just a question mark. "Just keep those in your pocket."

Dean shrugged and stuffed the cards into his back pocket, before catching Sam's eye. He pointed at himself, held up the car keys, then pointed toward the door, finally flashing the fingers on both hands five or six times.

Sam said, "See you in an hour," and looked back at the screen. It was only after he heard the Impala start and drive out of the parking lot that he realized that Dean had communicated everything he needed to say in a few gestures. Sam scratched his head. So maybe Dean didn't need the cards. He returned about an hour later, with a few packages, and lunch.

While they ate, Sam reviewed what he had researched. "I've got a firm lead on the fugly." He looked up at Dean. "Did you recognize his accent?" Dean frowned for a few seconds, then grabbed Sam's legal pad, and wrote, 'Mad Max'. Sam nodded. "That's what I thought, too. The guy sounds Australian, and given his size, from the aboriginal people." He opened another website. "Based on his behavior, language, and well, uh, a few other things," Sam looked down, then back up at Dean, "I'm betting he's a Trickster. An Aboriginal Trickster named Bamapana."

Dean looked a question at him. When Sam didn't reply, he dragged the cards out of his pocket and held up the question mark.

"What? Why Bamapana?"

Dean shook his head and wrote, 'What other things?'

"His language. Bamapana is known for obscenities. The aboriginal culture frowns on swearing. Bamapana is the embodiment of many of their societal taboos."

Dean underlined 'What other things?'

Sam pretended to stare at the laptop. "Nothing important. Finding him and getting this curse off is the important piece."

Dean rubbed his hand through is hair and moved back to the bed to collect his packages. Sam watched as he detached a small plastic box from a cardboard backer and set it on the table. Intrigued, Sam picked up the box while his brother upended another bag. He inspected the box, then put his thumb on the center piece of metal and pushed. He was rewarded with a loud clicking noise that startled him so much he almost dropped the box. Dean snatched it from Sam's hand and shoved it into a front pocket of his jeans.

"What the hell is that thing, Dean?" Dean handed him the cardboard. Sam looked at the pictures of cartoon dogs in disbelief. "You bought a dog training clicker?"

Dean grinned, dug the cards out of his pocket, and dropped them on the table. He pawed through the squares and held up the Yes card. He clicked the clicker one time from within his pocket. He picked up the No card and clicked twice.

"You're kidding me, right? One for yes, two for no? You're going to fucking click at me?" Dean reached forward and patted Sam's head. Sam swatted his arm away. "What about the cards?"

Dean walked to the far side of the room and held up a card.

Sam crossed his arms, exasperated. "It says Yes."

Dean walked out of the room, leaving the door open, and out into the parking lot to stand by the Impala. He held up another card.

Sam glared and called out, "OK, I can't read that from here."

Dean held up the clicker and thumbed it twice.

"I got it. No. All you had to do was shake your head."

Dean made a show of shuffling the cards, and stepped to one side. This time, all Sam could see was Dean's hand waving a square of white.

"All right! I get it, OK, I get it."

As Dean started to walk back, Sam grabbed the other bag but it was already empty. He waited for Dean to reach the table before he said, "So what else did you get and how much will it annoy me?"

Before Dean could reply, Sam saw it on a cord around Dean's neck. "A whistle?" He reached forward and snagged the whistle and snapped it, because all he wanted to do was crush it into unrecognizable slag. But the band didn't break. He yanked again, harder, and Dean hissed and held his neck.

Sam said, slightly contrite, "What is that cord made of?"

Dean pulled the cord away from his neck, and without letting go, let Sam examine it.

"It's gimp." He felt a smile tugging at his mouth. "Remember that after school program you parked me in when I was in the fifth grade?" Dean held up four fingers. "OK, fourth grade. I braided that stuff into a key ring for Dad." He shook his head, grinning. "That doesn't mean that I'm not going to burn it when you aren't looking. I'm not going to have you blowing a coach whistle at me every five seconds."

Dean took Sam's pen and wrote across the top of Sam's notes, 'I. C. E.'

Sam nodded grudgingly. "You'd better be serious about 'In Case of Emergency', man. Don't be blowing that if we run out of beer."

Dean found another blank spot on the notes and wrote, 'Experiment'. He held up his cell and pointed toward the lot.

"You'll call from the lot. Just one word, OK?"

Dean nodded, and pointed at the chair until Sam sat down. Dean headed out the door, and it seemed like hours before the phone rang. Sam grit his teeth and answered the phone. He was glad he was sitting, since it hurt like hell, but he didn't fall to the floor when his vision whited out for a second. Dean bounced back in and held up the question mark card.

Sam sighed out, "Didn't help."

Dean frowned and looked down.

"Do you want to do another test? Maybe more distance?"

Dean shook his head and clicked twice. Sam had to admit, it was a relief.

"It was worth it to know for sure. At least you can write and click – it's just your voice, not all and any attempts to communicate." Dean just stared at him. "I'm just saying it could be worse."

Dean grabbed Sam's marker, wrote on the back of one of the cards, and held it up. 'WTF?'

Sam was puzzled. "There's worse, you could be …" He almost bit his tongue.

Dean wrote, 'Deaf?' on the pad. Sam watched him rub his forehead.

Sam swallowed. "Yeah, guess that wasn't a good thing to bring up." He appraised Dean. "You look like crap, man, don't you want to try to get some more sleep? I'm fine." He waved his hands at Dean's scowl. "I'll be fine in a few minutes. I've got aspirin and I've got plenty to research. But you've only got a few hours sleep."

Dean nodded before looking toward the bedside table and angled for the nightstand to pick up his bottle of scotch. Sam took a breath to say something but Dean only took one swallow before putting the bottle down. As Dean sat down on the bed, Sam remembered something he'd meant to ask him. He pulled his red and black shirt from his duffle and tossed it in Dean's lap.

"Why did I find this in the trash in the bathroom? It's one of my favorite shirts. The least you can do is tell me …" He ran out of words as Dean went absolutely still. "Dean, what? The blood's not bad, we've gotten out worse."

Dean didn't look at Sam, just grabbed the scotch and took a long swallow.

He bent over to look into his brother's face. It was bloodless, Dean's eyes shuttered and blank. He reached over and picked the shirt up. "It's no big deal, man; I'll take care of it." When he started to draw his arm back, Dean shook his head, and looked at Sam with an expression he couldn't begin to decipher. "I'll wash it."

Dean shook his head again, and jerked the shirt out of Sam's hands. Before Sam could judge what he was about to do, Dean had a knife in the fabric, almost stabbing it, slicing the shirt down the back from collar to hem. Dean's breathing was ragged as he slashed the fabric again and again, removing the sleeves in pieces, and shredding the front. He dropped what was left of the shirt on the floor and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his left hand.

Sam sat down heavily on the side of his bed and watched Dean carefully put the knife down on the nightstand and lean over to untie his boots. He lay down on his back and stared at the ceiling.

"So, no washing the shirt."

Dean didn't look at him, just clicked the clicker in his pocket once.

"You'll get me a new one."

Another click.

"Should I ask why?"

That made Dean turn to look at him, but all he got was two clicks.

* * *

He woke with a jerk and pulled himself upright. He rubbed his face, and reached for the whiskey, trying to shake the remnants of his last nightmare.

"Dean, come on, man, I hate to say something, but enough is enough."

Dean turned the reach for the bottle into a stretch to raise his cuff and checked his watch. Just three hours of sleep, when he felt like he needed forty-eight. Man, he wanted a drink. He bit his cheek and counted to ten. It was that or kill his little brother, and however tempting that currently was, counting was no where near as messy. He sat for a minute and silently cursed Australian Tricksters. When he warmed up, he found that moving his lips and gesturing was very satisfying, so much so that he moved on to curse all of Australia, then threw in a few foul words about New Zealand.

He glanced over and caught Sam smiling. Their eyes met and Sam burst out laughing. Dean flipped him the bird, but couldn't help but smile in return before he aimed some choice curses at his school marm of a brother. God, he really needed a drink. With a last look at the bottle, he stood, scrubbed his hands through his hair and walked over to the table. He sat down heavily and stared at Sam.

"Feel better?"

Dean huffed out a breath, and then held the next one until he was sure Sam had no reaction. He took another of Sam's little cards, probably with something girly like 'Extra Tofu', reversed it, wrote for a second, and then turned it to Sam. 'SUCKS'.

"You're telling me. I need some help with something when you're awake.."

Dean smiled and straightened up. He rolled his hand.

"Before he drove off with Marian … ah, Mehitabel – with the bartender, Bampana gave me a number." Sam flipped his notebook open. "22 62 72 62. It must mean something. You're the math person."

He could tell when little brother was holding out. He skimmed the question mark card at him.

Sam picked it up off the keyboard. "It's a clue, that's all. Just see if you can find something, alright?"

Dean tore a sheet from Sam's legal pad, snagged Sam's favorite pen, and leaned back, using the motel's information notebook to prop the paper up against one leg.

The next few hours crawled by, Sam typing, occasionally directing a comment to him; Dean covering both sides of the page and several others with figures and equations. He'd gone outside finally, walking the block a few times since sitting in an eerily quiet room was not helping him think. He should be out interviewing people at the bar and having a few drinks, or calling contacts – and here his brain filled in the 'while drinking', or watching _Thunderdome_ with a six pack. He was sitting on the Impala's trunk drinking from his spare bottle of whiskey, and just beginning to wonder if Sam was right about the booze, when an idea about the number came to him and he walked back into the room to write it down.

Half an hour later, he was staring at his idea, a partial series, waiting for inspiration, and using the clicker to play a third rendition of 'Stairway to Heaven'. He thought he was getting pretty good at creating tonal variations by putting his hands in different positions.

Sam suddenly stood, yelled, grabbed the clicker, ran to the door, stepped into the parking lot, wound up, and threw. Dean reached the door just in time to see the clicker disappear in some scrub brush and trees beyond the parking lot fence. He nodded, impressed. With those long arms, the boy could really throw.

Sam must not have agreed with his skill level. He grinned and turned back inside.

Sam followed him in, closed the door and walked back to the laptop. "I couldn't take it anymore, Dean. I just couldn't."

Dean smiled, nodded, pulled out his second clicker, and began a soulful, if almost tuneless, rendition of 'In-A-Gada-Da-Vida'. Sam made an odd keening noise in the back of his throat, but he didn't make a grab for the new clicker.

Finally, even Dean grew tired of the noise, and tossed down his notes before tucking the clicker back into his pocket. He reached forward to write on the legal pad. Sam pulled it back and flipped the page and put it down with a clean sheet for Dean to write on. He raised one eyebrow.

Sam stuttered, "You have more room to write."

Dean smiled and shook his head. Sam and his neatness kink. He wrote up the side of the page, just to make him squirm. "Anything?"'

Sam shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nothing. Unless we stepped on his tiny feet when he was invisible, there's no reason, no lore, nothing that says why he targeted you."

Dean pointed at Sam.

"I'm pretty sure I was an afterthought. He said that this was about you out in the parking log. Do you have any idea why he would want you to be mute?"

Dean felt his jaw drop. He pointed at himself and shook his head no.

"You sure? Because if we can figure that out, maybe we can find out how to reverse this."

Dean clicked twice, emphatically.

Sam sighed. "Did you find out anything about the number?"

Dean made a show of throwing his number covered pages in the trash can. He held up one finger, and pointed at the cell phone. He wrote 'Number spells B A M A PA N A."

Sam made a weird expression. He took a breath. "I told you, right, that he was a Trickster."

Dean pawed through the cards and held up 'Yes'.

Sam looked at his notes and read aloud, "'Bamapana is a Trickster of discord, profanity, adultery, and incest. He delights in vulgar language, lustful behavior, and laughter.'"

Dean twirled his hand impatiently.

"When we were in the parking lot, Bamapana told me that I should call him when, well, call him, and he gave me that number."

Dean glared at him and wrote, 'definite lack of intel'. He picked up his cell and dialed 22 62 72 62 and put the call on speaker.

"Dean, wait, there's something I haven't …"

But just then they both heard the phone ring and a voice he had grown to hate answered.

"It's not even twenty-four hours and you two fuck muppets are calling? I'm on my way." The line disconnected, and they both started when they heard a knock on the door a second later.

"Open the door, fairy boys." Another knock. "Everyone I talked to says Dean's the girl in this relationship, but I think he'd be the one on top. Let's find out who's right."

Dean felt his ears starting to burn. He looked at Sam, who was turning a bright red. Dean held up the 'WTF' card and slammed it on the table, as the door rattled and shook in its frame.

"I'm not dancing for fucking joy being out here, you pestilent maggots. Open the door!"

* * *

A/N: Funny thing. I wrote this long before I saw even a clip of Dean in After School Special. I thought he would love a coach's whistle, and having seen the episode, turns out I was right. And it suits him.


	4. Come On, Strip Down

Sam knew he was up to his eyebrows in shit. Dean was pointing at the WTF card, then the door. It looked like the handle and lock mechanism were about to be blown into the room. He tiptoed to the door and very quietly put on the chain and set the deadbolt.

"Ah … hello? Who's there?" God that was lame. They hadn't had time to get ready for a Trickster, and hell, based on their prior experience, they'd probably never been ready. He really hated demi-gods.

"Oh, for the love of tiny incestuous bonobo's, you dill, you know perfectly well who this is. You called me." Sam yelped and pulled his head back when Bamapana hit the door right where his ear was pressed. "Listening won't help you, you imbecilic giant fuck, opening the door so I can _see_ you giant imbeciles fuck is the only thing that's going to save you both."

"We, well, we weren't expecting you so soon. We need a minute." Sam was so tense he thought his hair would stand on end. "Ahh, Dean's in the shower." He ran back to duffel, trying to think if they had anything antithetical to Australia. He rummaged while he thought of kangaroos, echidnas, crocodiles, platypuses, marmite … he finally upended the bag. Dean might have bought Foster's Lager once. But who the hell was he kidding. They weren't ready for anything Australian, and more importantly, they did not have a sharpened Trickster stake.

"In the _shower_? Are you getting in with him? Let me in right now, you dipshit!"

His heart skipped a beat when Dean blew the whistle. Dean pointed to the door. Wood was splintering around the deadbolt and chain.

Even though it was sure to be useless, Sam whispered, "Wet your hair or something."

Dean just shoved him toward the door. Sam slowed down his breathing, and spoke to the door again. "Dean wants to be dressed before you come in. He's hurrying." He glanced back at Dean to see an eye roll of gigantic proportions.

"But I don't want him dressed. The whole point is to see you both undressed, you fucking giraffe. It's not like I haven't seen it all before, thousands and thousands of times."

Sam felt Dean's hand on his shoulder. Dean was doing a Vanna White manoeuvre up and down his body and shaking his head.

"Well, you haven't seen his body. Or mine."

"Enough of this crap, boys, open the door!"

Sam rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, undid the chain and deadbolt, and swung the door open.

"OK, he's dressed now."

Funny, how harmless the little guy could look. Even knowing what he was, Sam thought the Trickster still looked like some kind of hobbit with a big staff. Sam glanced over to see Dean, arms crossed, red faced with anger or embarrassment. Sam wasn't sure if Dean or the Trickster scared him more just then.

Sam decided the smaller one looked less threatening. "Bamapana."

"They said you were smart, you overgrown mop." He marched in, somehow appearing on the far side of the two large men blocking the door. Sam closed it, and turned to see the Trickster gazing at Dean. "Like the whistle. Suits you."

Dean made a rude gesture. Sam blurted out, "Take whatever you did off his voice."

"No." He glanced at Sam. "And don't think sobbing like a little girl will get you anywhere with me, you cocksucker. That only works once. And speaking of that, why aren't you two in bed?"

"Why did you put the whammy on him in the first place?"

"I wanted to get Dean's attention. Come on, strip down."

"Why do you want Dean's attention?"

"That's for Dean and I to discuss after the two of you hump like bunnies."

Dean shook his head, moved his mouth, and threw his arms in the air. He stepped back to the table and picked up a handful of cards. He held up the 'No' card. Then he held up the question mark to Sam.

Sam tried again. "He can't talk without hurting me – which you know. Since you did it. Let him go."

"Hell, boy, I was just going to take his voice. If you hadn't threatened me in the parking lot, you'd be just fine. And, Poindexter? You should leave the heavy lifting to your brother. He's the gorilla. You're the intellectual tofu-eating wanker." Bamapana pointed the staff at Sam. "And you didn't tell him about our conversation, did you?" The Trickster snorted out a laugh. "I wouldn't have taken you for such a prude, Sam, given your brother's propensity to fuck anything with two legs, and your dick's recent attraction for …"

"Shut the hell up, you piece of shit." Sam was furious, breathing like he'd run a marathon. He was going to rip the little guy into tiny pieces. Then burn them. He started forward, hands fisted at his side, when Dean nudged him once, then twice. Dean stamped his foot and blew his whistle. When Sam and Bamapana looked at him, he drew an exaggerated feminine outline in the air.

"I stand corrected. Anything female. Until now." He grinned. "Dean, I told your brother to use that number when you two were going to screw. That's why I'm here. For brother on brother action. So get them out and get them up." He pointed at one of the beds with his staff. "There's the place. Get cracking." He suddenly guffawed and pulled himself up on one of the chairs and began swinging his legs.

Sam said, "We are so not going to do that."

The Trickster's voice dropped. "But you want to, don't you? You think of it every time you look at each other. Of course you do …" he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, and continued to talk, apparently to the air.

Dean looked at Sam and held up the question mark card. Sam shrugged and cleared his throat. "Um, Bamapana – not working."

The little man sighed. "I can't even organize a root in a brothel." He pointed at Sam. "It was worth a frigging try even if you're part demonic, and the drongo there..." pointing at Dean, "has been hit a few too many times on the head."

Dean hands fisted. He scribbled something on the pad of paper and shoved it in Sam's hands before resuming his admittedly lethal looking glower. Sam read it. Read it again. He nodded at Dean then addressed the Trickster.

"What would have been in it for us if we'd done it? Would you have released Dean's voice?"

"Taken the whammy off? No. There was no deal here, no bargain, no arrangement. I just came for incredibly hot tall hunter sex. You sure I can't get any?"

Sam shook his head. He looked at the little man thoughtfully. "By implication, you are suggesting that we might be able to make an arrangement with you to restore Dean's voice."

The Trickster slowly grinned. "It's possible."

"A bargain. You want something from us." Sam looked at Dean, but Dean just gestured him to continue.

"And you know who we are, what we do, and …" he looked at the little man. "You want us to hunt something for you."

Bamapana crowed with delight. "Got it in one, a slow one, but one all the same. I just need a little help with a local …"

Dean whistled and slapped the table. He held up the No card.

"Jackass, the smart people in the room are talking. You should listen to what I have to say, boy, before you interrupt me …"

Dean shook his head and hit the table. Sam took a step forward, but before he could reach his suddenly insane brother, Bamapana pointed his staff at him. His head felt like it was going to explode. He clapped his hands over his ears, and screwed his eyes shut in pain.

The next thing he knew, his knees hurt and Dean's hands were gripping his biceps. He looked up blearily, and saw something volcanic in his brother's eyes.

"'M'OK. Just give me a minute." He sat back on his heels and closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the pain. Bamapana was talking to Dean.

"You going to pretend you didn't get hard watching that?" and damn, that didn't make any sense at all, and Jesus, that voice was starting to sound like nails on a blackboard. He felt Dean's support leave, and opened his eyes to watch Dean walk to the table, stiff legged, and pick up a chair. He couldn't see Dean's face, but he could see Bamapana's.

"What are you planning to do, you ball-less wonder?" The little man's voice was shrill. "You piece of shit – Hell spat you out, with saliva still on you. You think an angel could have yanked you out if Hell still wanted you? What kind of sewage get's thrown out of Hell?"

Sam rubbed his eyes, and looked again at the Trickster. Bamapana was scared. Of Dean. Sam would have to think about that later, think about all of this later, since right now the crux of the matter was Dean and the chair.

The chair Dean was lifting over his head.

Sam quietly said, "Dean, no. I'm all right."

Dean hunched one shoulder, tipping the chair slightly to one side.

"Dean. Help me up."

Dean never took his eyes off Bamapana as he lowered the chair to the floor. Sam could hear him let out a breath, before he felt Dean's hand under one elbow, and a grip on his belt, and he was up on almost steady legs.

Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You're wrong there – an angel can do pretty much anything it wants." He pushed Dean toward the bed, and tried to step in front of him. It didn't work, but Sam could at least follow him back to the table and sit down on Dean's erstwhile weapon; Dean stood next to the chair and fumed.

"So, a hunt." He pinched the bridge of his nose, and looked at the Trickster. "As long as it's not someone like you, or at least one particular one, we'll consider it."

"Another one like me? Oh, yeah, the one you cried at. No, we don't usually involve anyone outside the family in our little internecine struggles. No, this is a pain in the ass bunyip that followed me here. I can't hurt the bastard, and it's ruining business for me. Everywhere I go, it slogs after me, booming and calling, dripping water everywhere … if I stay in one place long enough, it starts eating people and I don't like that. Panicked humans run around screaming instead of screwing."

Sam's jaw almost dropped open. "How could you, a Trickster, not be able to handle … anything corporeal? Can't you just wave your stick," Sam waved at the staff, "and send its supernatural ass back to Australia?"

"Quit calling me a Trickster. And, Dean, you thoughtless swine, I need a drink. The good stuff from the car will do nicely."

Dean jerked and glared, but picked up the keys off the dresser and walked out of the room. Sam snagged a couple of plastic cups from the kitchenette, and set them on the table, just as Dean stalked back in, and slammed a bottle on the table in front of Bamapana.

"No need for more bad manners, you illiterate blobhead."

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, looked at Sam helplessly, and went back outside, slamming the door behind him. Sam jumped when he heard a crash from outside, and bolted to the door. He found Dean staring down at an upended concrete planter.

"You about done killing vegetation, man, because this guy could turn us into newts or something just by thinking about it. You _know_ that, right?"

Dean nodded and followed Sam back in the room. Bamapana was taking a cautious drink from an overfull cup. Whisky was going down his chin, onto his clothes, the chair, and the carpet.

Dean waved his arms in frustration. Sam was suddenly almost glad that his brother was temporarily – and he'd make damn sure it was temporarily – unable to speak. Dean poured a shot in the remaining glasses and took his in a gulp. Sam followed suit, feeling the burn of the whiskey all the way down to his stomach, and held out his glass for a refill.

Dean settled on the foot of the nearest bed, setting the bottle carefully down by one boot. He sighed, poured and drank a second shot, and was going for a third when Sam leaned his chair back on two legs and snatched the bottle from his hand. Both he and Dean stared at Bamapana. Oblivious, the little man continued to dribble whiskey down his chin.

Breaking the silence, Sam said, "So, Bamapana, tell us about the bunyip and why you need us, because it's sounding a little far-fetched." Sam grimaced again at his own choice of words. Their entire lives were far-fetched.

The little man held out his empty glass. Once it was full, he looked up, and if Sam were a fanciful man, he would have thought Bamapana looked embarrassed.

"Those of us, like me, we come in all shapes and sizes. We have all different sorts of abilities. I'm not going to pretend I can rewrite the world to get your brother back like some", he pointed his chin at Dean, but kept his eyes on Sam. "I set things in motion. I don't hunt, I steal other people's food. I don't dig a well, I drink what I want, then piss in the water. Let's just say I set something in motion that had some unforeseen consequences. I figured if I made myself scarce for a time, I could go home and it would have blown over." He drained his glass, and tapped the empty glass on the table until Sam filled it again.

"The best thing about so called 'Western' civilization is the hootch, bar none. Not the flavored stuff, or fermented blood or piss, or crap like that, but whisky, scotch, bourbon, vodka … " He paused for a moment to take a drink.

Bamapana seemed to shake himself and fastened his gaze back on Sam. It made him feel like a bug under a microscope.

"Someone sent a piece of home after me. And I don't kill things. The bunyip - I can't get away from it. I don't think the poor creature has a choice, since it should be floating around in a billabong, not dragging its ugly carcass around after me, but it's not an innocent creature. It's intelligent, and predatory, and it's eating the very people I want to observe. I want you two to hunt and kill it."

Something appeared in his hand and he threw it at Dean. "First section, page three."

Dean caught it – the Keith County News. He unfolded it, scanned the articles, then passed the paper over to Sam. Sam noted the headline, and turned suspicious eyes to the Trickster. "You could have conjured this newspaper from thin air – had it say anything you want."

"No, I couldn't, well I could, but I didn't. But you don't have to believe me. Check it out. Find the bunyip and kill it. Then, and only then, will I give Dean's voice back. And this I can do – I can promise that without me, you'll never get this off him." He pointed at Dean. "Are you willing to accept that? Live like this forever?"

Dean looked at Sam and shook his head. He pointed at the paper and nodded.

"You aren't telling us everything."

"That's goddamn obvious. There's a world of things I'm not telling you but a bunyip is a bunyip and it's killing people. And you two even drove yourself right to it all on your own. It's in the lake north of here, McConaughey. You two do what you do best, kill it, which you would have done anyway, and Dean gets his voice back."

"What if we do this and Dean's voice is still gone?"

"I will restore Dean's voice the moment the bunyip is dead. I give you my word." Bamapana's voice echoed and reverberated, shaking the furniture. A light bulb in the bedside table lamp exploded.

Bamapana held out his cup again. "So, how soon can you do it?"

Sam poured the last of the whiskey into the cup and thought for a moment. "We haven't hunted one of these before, so a day or two…"

Dean snapped the clicker once.

Sam cranked his head. "You have?"

Dean nodded.

"While I was at Stanford?"

One click.

"It should be in the journal then if you and Dad hunted it."

Two clicks.

"Dad wasn't with you."

One click. Dean poured another shot of whiskey, and Sam didn't try to stop him.

Sam looked at Bamapana. "We'll still need twenty four hours, maybe more, but to do this, Dean needs his voice back now. We won't welsh on the deal, we will kill it, but we need to communicate."

"No." Bamapana drained his glass and stood. "You both seem to be doing fine without it." He set his glass down. "Don't take too long. More than forty-eight hours and I'll leave things are they are now." He grinned and vanished.

Sam thought for a minute. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking? The bunyip is probably what Bobby sent us to investigate."

Dean clicked once.

"And now we have to hunt it. We have a deadline and you have no voice."

Dean didn't react.

"We'll, this is a revolting development."

Dean just fell back on the bed.


	5. He Named the Bait?

A/N: My thanks as always to my team of beta's. Any remaining mistakes are all mine. This chapter is for you, Scotia.

* * *

"So, bunyips. Loud, vicious, carnivorous … corporeal?"

Dean had been looking out over the parking lot, but clicked once and pointed at Dad's journal again. Sam's research had to consist of more than asking him yes or no questions or they'd be here another week.

"Silver bullets?"

Two clicks.

"Not demonic or supernatural, then? Any freaky powers?"

Dean turned to frown at Sam. Now, he was asking two questions at a time. Two clicks, a beat, two clicks. When Sam opened his mouth again, Dean walked to the table, picked up Sam's hand, and set it on the Bunyip page.

"I know what _Dad_ wrote. I want to know about _your_ hunt. What you would have written."

Dean shrugged but he sat down and grabbed Sam's pad and pen. 'Found it, killed it, burned it.'

"Was it easy?"

He shook his head again and wrote, 'Trapped it, then killed it.'

"Sounds easy enough."

He grinned and held up the 'No' card before writing. 'Smart fucker." He thought for a minute and started to write, waving Sam back toward the laptop. When he was done, he pushed the pad toward Sam. He read it, and laughed out loud when he finished.

"So you ended up in the trap first, and it pissed on you?"

Dean scrubbed his hand over his head and felt himself turning red. That hunt was one of the first hundred things on his list of a million 'Things Never to Tell Sam'. He wrote, 'Worse than a skunk. Had to use tomato juice and vodka."

"Vodka? You needed to bathe in a Bloody Mary?" Sam snorted. "I hope you brought a celery stick."

Dean scowled and pawed through his cards. He needed one that said 'Don't be a smartass'. He finally flipped the 'Bitch' card at Sam. He wrote again. 'Oily. Needed alchohol.' He grimaced and looked over at Sam, who was staring at him with a weird expression. He held up the question mark.

Sam looked down and made some notes. "I missed a lot in four years. So, rain gear. Your Remington, shot guns, iron rounds …" Dean knocked on the table. Sam looked up. "What?" He checked his notes. "Umm, shot guns or iron rounds?"

Dean wrote 'No iron. Need max firepower.'

Sam thought for a minute. "I think we only have salt and iron for the shotguns. We'll need to buy cartridges. How are you set for ammo for the Eagle?"

Dean gave him a thumbs up.

"We have plenty of ammo for the Taurus and the Colt, don't we?" Dean nodded. "What else?"

Dean wrote 'C-4 in trap'.

"Overkill, don't you think? And you said the trap didn't work all that well the last time. I'll figure something out."

He wrote, 'Two of us, better trap. Better bait. It'll work. Big mother.' He underlined 'Big' a couple of times.

Sam sighed. "Jefferson's just a few states away, isn't he? Let me make a few calls."

Dean walked out to the car and brought in the Remington and a duffel of guns. He put a spare sheet over his bed, unpacked the duffel, and carefully pulled out his Desert Eagle. He'd clean that first. He loved the Colt, but the Eagle could stop an elephant. It should be able to stop a bunyip.

Sam got off the phone a few minutes later. "Found some, about twenty miles from here. We can get the ammo there too. We'll need at least five hundred in cash."

Dean glanced up. He pantomimed using a pool cue.

"I'll do it. It's not going to be easy to hustle without your voice."

Dean clicked twice. He reassembled the Colt and stood up.

"We could do 'poor little mute brother'. Maybe you could pretend to be deaf too?"

He frowned and pointed the little box at Sam before clicking twice.

Sam thought for a minute. "How about you pretend to be more stupid than you are?"

That got Sam a well deserved smack on the head.

* * *

Dean finished packing the explosives carefully into the trunk. They'd come back from an early morning recon of the lake before they headed out for ammunition. They'd found tracks and the trail it followed as it moved from the lake to the nearby picnic and camping area, but luckily hadn't seen the mostly nocturnal bunyip itself.

He opened both back doors and began meticulously taping heavy duty plastic sheeting from the ceiling to the floor and side to side in the back. Sam watched in some interest.

"So what's going to make this hunt different than the last one? Why do you think the trap is going to work this time? And what the hell is the plastic for?"

Dean held up his first finger. He covered both passenger doors. When he was satisfied, he got behind the wheel and waved Sam inside.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

Dean raised his right eyebrow and smiled.

An hour later, Sam was sneezing so hard he didn't have breath to bitch. Dean drove Sam and their passenger out toward the lake. The main access road was closed, as was the park, but they'd found a small feeder road that morning and after picking a padlock and removing a chain, followed it to within a half mile of the lake. Once Dean had pulled the Impala partly into the brush, they began unpacking the explosives and led their reluctant passenger out of the car. Dean removed the plastic quickly, rolling it up into a bundle, which he tossed into the woods.

They began the hike to the lake with their supplies, the heaviest of which could thankfully walk on its own but was fighting the rope around its neck.

"Great. Now we're shepherds. Why doesn't this damn thing want to walk with us?"

Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Is this the difference? Live, um, bait?"

Dean nodded vigorously.

"And you didn't know that the last time?"

Dean hunched a shoulder and kept walking. They reached the lake shore, and tracked back toward the bunyip's hunting ground, dragging the sheep every foot of the way. Even with both of them working, digging the trap, setting the explosives, and camouflaging their work took several hours. By the time they had finished, and staked the sheep's tether by the trap, they were both so sweaty and filthy they took a lazy swim in the lake before returning to the car to drop off their equipment and raid the cooler.

The sheep kept up a faint, but constant, bleat as they ate lunch. Sam gestured with a bottle of coke. "So, the sheep's the difference. What happens to the sheep afterwards?"

Dean pondered the idea of an afterwards for the sheep and shook his head.

"She's going to die, isn't it?"

He nodded. The bunyip would probably take that sheep in one bite. Preferably while it was falling into a trap lined with stakes and C-4. Sam looked a little queasy.

"So … um, the sheep", he sneezed. "Fuck. I'm not allergic to wool. Why am I allergic to a sheep?"

Dean held up his hand and rubbed his thumb and finger together.

"You're playing hearts and flowers for me? Why? 'Cause I'm allergic? Oh. Got it. You have any trouble before with bunyip fur?"

Dean thought about that. He brightened and shook his head no. He knew there had to be a fugly somewhere he wasn't allergic to. He leaned back, closing his eyes as the late afternoon sun angled into them.

"So, what's the plan? Maybe I should have asked this before, but I don't want to end up being pissed on."

Dean rubbed his face. He got up and walked to the lake. He found a stick, and started to draw on the smooth mud by the shore. Sam trailed over and watched, identifying the trap and the path.

"Where's Lulabelle?"

Dean's mouth dropped open and he looked the question at his brother. He named the bait?

"The sheep. Lulabelle."

Dean checked his pockets and found a receipt for gas. He crumbled that into a ball and set it down by the trap. He spotted a small piece of driftwood, and hurried to set it on the diagram between the lake and the trap. He drew a stick figure near the water, and pointed from it to Sam.

"So, I'm by the lake, and the bunyip", he pointed at the driftwood, "is ahead of me."

Dean pantomimed shooting.

"So I'll be driving it toward the sheep." He looked at the drawing. "Where will you be?"

Dean pointed at the trap and the crumpled receipt.

"You'll be hiding behind the sheep?"

Dean drew the stick along the diagram from the lake to the trap, and jumped the end of the stick over the trap.

"You're going to be bait, too? No way."

Dean shook his head and pointed at the paper Lulabelle.

"You're going to lead it to Lulabelle. Why? You know I run faster than you." Sam pointed back toward the detonator. "You just want to set the explosives off."

Dean reached in his jean's pocket. He checked his other pocket, before pulling both pockets inside out. He looked up and the first thing he saw was Sam holding up his clicker. He must have lifted it when they were swimming. Dean made a grab for it, but Sam pulled it back.

"You aren't going to need this anymore. And it's not going to be any good while we are sneaking around in the woods." Dean made another grab for it, but Sam held it maddeningly out of his reach. "And I won't be able to hear it with the bunyip crashing around, right?" He turned and threw the clicker into the lake.

Dean couldn't help but nod appreciatively. The bitch could throw like nobody's business. He snagged the lanyard around his neck and blew on the whistle once. He gestured at the sun, now just above the horizon, and back toward their stuff.

"OK, Dean, let's get ready for the bunyip roast."

* * *

It was going exactly according to plan. The bunyip had emerged at twilight and focused on Dean as soon as he stepped out on the path. It managed to became even more interested in him after he'd fired three rounds into its chest. Sam followed with three shots to the monster's hindquarters. It should have dropped dead. Instead, it started off after Dean like a rhinocerous-sized locomotive.

Dean was sprinting flat out down the path toward the trap, the bunyip in hot pursuit. More gunshots sounded behind him. Coming up on the trap, he gave up some speed in order to lengthen his stride. He jumped over the trap and sidestepped the madly bleating Lulabelle. He ran a few more yards, darted to one side, and into the woods. He reached the tree where he'd hidden the detonator, grabbed it, and pressed himself flat against the trunk.

He hadn't heard the crash of the trap giving way. He listened - nothing. No bellows of a trapped bunyip - just high pitched bleating. That couldn't be a good sign. It should be bunyip food. He risked a glance around the tree. Even in the dark of the woods, it looked like the trap was untouched. Definitely not according to plan. He thought he heard Sam approaching, and chanced a second look, only to come face to face with the bunyip's teeth as it poked its massive snout around the tree.

He backpedaled, bringing up the Eagle and got off a shot as he juggled the detonator and the whistle with his left hand. Before he could move, the bunyip's immense head smashed into his ribs, throwing him at least a dozen feet. He ended up wrapped around the trunk of a really large tree. He slid to the ground. The pain was blinding, stealing his breath, and his vision went white.

He wasn't sure what woke him, but his head snapped up and he rolled onto his knees. He blinked a couple of times until his vision cleared, and used the tree to pull himself up. He had no idea where the trap was. Or Sam. Or the bunyip. The sheep, though, he could find. He glanced around him for the detonator and found it quickly, but the bend down and reach to retrieve it set off another flare of pain throughout his torso. His gun was still clutched in his right hand.

He thought he heard something Sam-like to his left, and moved off in that direction. He tripped on a root, and fell onto his hands and knees, jarring his body, and had to bite back a groan. He couldn't make a noise, or Sam would be down and helpless.

He could just hear something approaching over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears and his gasping breath. He got up on his knees, training the gun ahead of him, and was reaching for the whistle when the bunyip appeared noiselessly in front of him and slammed him to the ground.

It picked him up in its mouth almost delicately, and effortlessly skewered his left thigh with teeth like machetes. He bit back a scream, grinding his teeth together, silently yelling 'no noise, no noise, nonoise nonoise nonoisenonoisenonoise', as the teeth ripped through the skin and muscle, squeaking against the bone. The monster lifted its head and before he could get off another shot, threw him again, sailing him through the air to land on his back, half on and half off a log.

He took a shallow breath, and dragged his right arm onto his chest. He got his eyes open and checked, but this time he really had let go of the gun. He heard the bunyip approaching and rolled his head frantically left and right. He couldn't see the Eagle even though he thought he saw the detonator just a few feet away. He grabbed for the whistle. He had no idea if he had enough breath to blow it but Sam couldn't be that far away. He should have been tripping over Dean and the bunyip by now, if he hadn't set off the trap himself with those freakishly long legs.

Dean tugged on the lanyard, and tugged again, puzzled when he couldn't bring the whistle to his mouth. He dragged his eyes open and found the bunyip looming over him. He felt it before he saw it – the bunyip had hooked on enormous claw through the loop and was pulling the lanyard hard enough to pick him up by his neck, lifting his head and shoulders off the ground.

With a final jerk, the claw sliced through the gimp and the whistle arced away. He put an arm back but still hit the ground hard. Air huffed out of him, and he dragged a hand over his mouth, and silently chanted 'no noise no noise no noise' until he groggily realized he didn't even remember what that meant anymore. He just knew he had to keep quiet. So he did, even when the creature set a huge paw on his chest and went still, its lambent eyes focused in what Dean figured was the direction of the path, and his brother. It was certainly where the sheep was bleating its head off, and for a moment, he really wished the damn thing had eaten Lulabelle.

He thought he heard Sam then, finally, calling his name. Dean had to find a way to warn him – let him know where the monster was. And where he was. Sam would have no idea where to look for him, and Dean was pretty sure he really needed Sam to find him soon. He scrabbled in the forest litter, looking for something to throw, something to make noise, something to take his mind off just screaming Sam's name.

And damn, he was never going to let his brother forget that he had been the one to toss not one, but two, clickers. He was also not going to let both Winchesters become bunyip chow. Not on his watch, and especially not for a foul mouthed batfuck crazy midget Trickster.

He found a branch, and slapped it against the ground with a twist of his wrist. Too quiet. He had to get his arm up to smack it harder or throw it, but before he could, the bunyip turned its steamer trunk of a head toward him. He had enough time to register that that wasn't a good thing at all, before it cuffed his head at least twice, maybe more, but after the second blow, he stopped paying too much attention.

He woke up smelling blood which wasn't that unusual. He decided just to roll over and go back to sleep. He got one shoulder up before a sharp lancing pain made him jerk and his eyes opened with a start. _Okay, not rolling over_. He squinted a little bit. He wasn't sure why, but he was looking at stars. He hadn't looked at those in a long time. And treetops. He was in a forest clearing. And he felt like shit. He tried moving his head, but instantly regretted it, feeling something drip in his ear. Maybe he should just lay there and look at the stars. And breathe.

He startled awake seconds or maybe hours later, hearing gun shots, lots of them, echoing through the woods. Sam. Monster. No noise. He flexed his right hand, and brought it up to his face. Where the hell was his gun? He had to get up. He rolled to one side, and almost shouted as searing pain shot from his left foot to his scalp. He couldn't breathe for a minute, then finally gasped and laid back, panting, the world tilting around him.

He hadn't meant to close his eyes again, but he must have, because he had to open them when he felt something touch him. He jerked and hissed, but remembered 'no noise' and shut his mouth with a click of his teeth.

"Whoa, Dean, try not to talk."

He could see Sam's face and his giant hands. And a flashlight. He got a hand up again and aimed it where he thought Sam might be.

"I'm right here. Try not to move. I've got to put a tourniquet on your leg."

He let his hand drop on Sam again. Man, he needed his question mark card. Probably in the lake with his goddamn clicker. Sam was suddenly right over his face.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd quit feeling me up while I'm trying to save your leg."

Now he really needed his 'Bitch' card. He knocked on Sam's arm until Sam was looming over him again. He found Sam's arm and drew a question mark on it with his finger, then pointed at Sam.

"What? Me? I'm fine, Dean. Hardly a scratch."

He came back to himself with a slow pulse of pain. He tried to wave his arm toward the forest and when that didn't work, he tried to write B U N Y I P on Sam's arm. He lost track of where he was, and tried again, but Sam caught his hand and settled it back next to him.

"Bee you enn what?" He laughed suddenly. "Bunyip. Hold still. It's in the trap and it's not going anywhere." He patted Dean's leg and stood up. He moved out of sight and Dean caught glimpses of the flashlight beam playing on the grass near his head.

Sam was back in a minute. "Open your eyes. Dean, stay with me. Open your eyes."

He did, and felt Sam put something in the palm of his hand and hold it there. Dean peered at it but he couldn't focus his eyes.

"Just push down with your thumb."

He shook his head, or tried to, and pushed his hand toward Sam.

"What is it? Come on, Dean, you know you want to do it. Just push down the plunger and we'll have an ex-bunyip and you'll be talking again."

Dean pushed again, and got his finger on Sam's arm again. He wrote K A N.

Sam said, "Kay something enn? Kandy? Kansas? Just push the plunger."

Damn, he had to get his brain working. He wrote M O.

"Emm oh? Don't worry about it. Make the bunyip blow up."

He slapped at Sam's arm and dropped the detonator near where he thought Sam's hand was. He pointed at him, and moved his thumb up and down, and wrote 'BRIDGE' on Sam's arm.

"Bee are ... Dean, I swear to god if you are trying to write out stripper names … wait, bridge? You mean Wichita? Kaw Lake. The bridge."

Dean gave him a thumbs up and closed his eyes, too tired to do anything else. Sam had it from there. He felt the ground shake under him, and felt something on his face. He cracked one eye enough to see his little brother hovering over him before the noise of the blast swept over them both. He smiled and relaxed, and had time to hope that all the bunyip gore missed him and landed on Sam before he let the darkness come up and drag him down.

* * *

A/N 2: Copious amounts of C-4 and the bridge at Kaw Lake appear in my first story, _Mesmerize_.


	6. No Wonder He's Cranky

Thank god, they'd taken most everything back to the car before they'd started the hunt because if he was trying to carry Dean _and_ their weapons duffel he'd be screwed. Not that it was a cakewalk to carry his brother in the best of times. Sam snorted. Like any time he was carrying Dean was a _best_ time. He tried to remember the last time he'd carried him and it shook him so badly he stumbled. Dean had been dead.

He grabbed a branch overhanging the path and held on for a moment, breathing heavily. Once he felt a little steadier, he resettled Dean's dead weight one handed, and started forward. The picnic area should be just around the next bend. He could make that. Get Dean on the picnic table, get a better look at that leg. And then get a look at his own arm. Damn that thing had been fast. How the hell Dean took care of one of these on his own?

He heard a noise ahead of him and waited a minute to see if it would repeat. When it didn't, he shrugged and set off, way too tired not to drag his foot. He'd have to look at that later too. Within a few steps, his flashlight reflected off some trashcans, and he lurched forward until he reached the table he wanted. He settled Dean's legs and hips first, then used his good arm to support Dean's back and shoulders until he could gently rest Dean's head on the wooden surface.

He sank down heavily on one of the attached benches, and snaked a long arm under the seat for their first aid kit. Dean had scoffed, but Sam tucked the kit here just in case. He cracked a couple of light sticks and cut the jean's leg away from the wound. Maybe later he'd cut the other pant leg off, and give Dean and his newly unscarred legs a pair of shorts. Sam shook his head. Strike that - his newly re-scarred leg.

He held up one of the sticks and felt his stomach flip slowly. The wounds were bites, through and through bites, still bleeding in a sluggish trickle. He couldn't just stitch these – they'd need to be set up with a drain, there were arteries and nerves, and Dean would need good antibiotics. Maybe he could get Dean to a hospital before he woke up.

He set up the supplies he would need in a careful row on the bench and began, sluicing the wounds with holy water and alcohol. He'd have to loosen the tourniquet soon or Dean would lose the leg. He worked the buckle on the belt he'd wrapped around Dean's upper thigh and opened it a notch, chewing on his lower lip as he watched for bleeding. A little was expected, too much and Dean might bleed out before any help could reach them. After a few minutes, he released the belt another notch, and checked below Dean's ankle for a pulse. All good.

He removed the belt entirely and wrapped it back through his jeans. Funny how he'd managed to finally put on weight only after Dean… died. He hadn't really thought he was taking in enough food with the alcohol. Guess it helped having a demon forcing you to sober up. And here he was, not a demon, watching Dean drink and lose weight. He tried to ignore the prick of conscience and bandaged Dean's leg.

Sam pondered their situation while he checked his brother for other injuries. He didn't want to have to tell the police what they were doing in a closed park. Or have them find the crater down the path before they'd left town. The bunyip had reached as far west as Lewellen, but the closest hospital from there would be in Oshkosh. He'd go with a bear attack in Keystone to the east, which would make his arrival at the community hospital in Ogallala more believable.

Dean's breathing hitched when he pressed down on his ribs - a few were cracked ribs and at least two were broken. He found a scalp wound and three bumps on the left side of Dean's head. He cleaned the blood off Dean's face. The ER could stitch that when he arrived. He checked pupillary action with a pen light and started chewing his lip again as he watched the sluggish response in one eye and almost no response in the other. That was one hell of a concussion.

He raised Dean's eyelids again and slapped his cheek. There was something he had to know.

"Dean. Dean, wake up. I need you to wake up right now." He tapped Dean's cheek again. "Come on, wake up, Mr. 'We'll build a trap'. You're a jerk and I'm an idiot for listening to you." The light from the glow sticks made Dean's face look washed out and waxy, and that was another reminder that he could do without. He flipped on a flashlight and tossed the sticks into a trash can with a rattle. He heard the noise again. _It couldn't be._ He stood carefully and swept the flashlight in a slow circle and spotted Lulabelle right at the edge of the clearing.

He laughed out loud. She ambled out and began grazing on the grassy playground.

"Dean, you are not going to believe this. Lulabelle made it. She's alive." He rubbed his knuckles down Dean's sternum. "Wake up _now_, Dean, I need you to wake up and say something so we can find out if that little fucker was telling the truth. Wake up!" He could finally see Dean's eyes moving behind his lids. "Come on, Dean."

Dean's jaw worked but he didn't speak, just breathed roughly through his nose. Sam lifted Dean's right eyelid and shone the flashlight right into the eye. Dean's arm swung out blindly, and pushed against Sam's bad arm. It wasn't much, but it still made him draw in a pained gulp of air. He set the flashlight upright further down the table. Dean cracked one eye, then the other, his gaze tracking slowly until it seemed to settle on him.

"Hey."

Dean blinked slowly, eyes drifting, before Sam felt, rather than saw, the table shift under his hand. Dean tried to heave in air, and his eyes widened and sharpened.

"It's OK. I'm fine. You've got some broken ribs. I need you to talk. Just one word, then I go for the car."

He squeezed his eyes closed and Sam thought he saw the muscles in his jaw tense in the dim light. Dean shook his head minutely, then held up a fist and jerked his thumb up and down twice. The clicker, he was trying to use the clicker.

"The bunyip's dead. Say something. Say 'Dean Winchester loves Lulabelle'." He watched Dean's eyes start to slip closed. "What's my name? Don't think about it, say it right now!"

Dean didn't open his eyes, but he did open his mouth. Sam leaned forward, listening and trying not to grind his teeth together. He moved his head a little. If he passed out, he didn't want his head to drop on Dean's ribs.

"Lulabelle?"

It was mostly breath, slurred, but definitely voice. He laughed again as the sheep bleated. "Dick." He rubbed his ears. "Didn't hurt. You can talk again."

Dean's eyes opened and his leg jerked. "Leg's screwed, idn't it?"

"It'll be fine." Sam set the flashlight down next to his brother and checked the bandages on Dean's thigh. "And don't think about falling asleep."

"Sheep … really here?"

Sam pulled his leg up onto the bench and poked at his ankle. "Yeah, man, she's here. I don't' know how she survived." He carefully took off his shirt, hissing as the fabric pulled at one of the gouges the bunyip had clawed into him. He looked up again as he untied the piece of shirt he'd wrapped around his upper arm. Dean's eyes were closed.

"What's the national animal of Australia?" He poked Dean's arm. "Come on, you know this one. Big legs, tail, hops." Dean didn't twitch. "Talk to me!" he barked. "National animal of Australia. What is it?"

"Wha's wrong? You OK, Sam?" He turned his head toward Sam. "Hurt your arm?"

"It'll be fine. I'm fine." Sam looked around for a distraction. "What's your favorite color?"

Dean's glassy gaze drifted from his arm. He smiled vaguely and murmured, "What is your quest?"

Sam took a couple of ibuprofen. His arm needed a few stitches and his ankle was probably sprained, but all in all, he came out OK in the Bunyip War. He stood and hissed when he put pressure on his right foot. He might have some broken bones. He threw the supplies in the kit and pulled out a space blanket. He draped it over Dean, and worried that the slight breeze would send the foil sailing into the park where the sheep would probably eat it, he added his jacket knowing the walk to the car would keep him warm enough.

Dean was looking up. Sam craned his head back and saw a beautiful night sky. "Stargazing, Dean? Listen for a minute."

"Sure, Sam. Right here." Dean cut his eyes over.

"I have to go get the car." He tucked the crinkly blanket around his brother's legs. "Don't move. You stay awake until I get back, you hear me? Stay awake."

"Who died and made you … um, big brother?"

Sam _almost_ said it out loud. Almost said, 'You did'. He blinked a few times. "You're always the big brother. Just need you to do me a favor. Promise me you won't move."

"Don't get panties … twist."

"Just wait for me, OK? Wait. And stay awake."

Dean frowned. "Lulabelle is not coming in the car."

Sam huffed out a laugh. "I'll figure something out."

The ibuprofen had helped, but damn, his foot still hurt. He checked the compass on his watch, and struck off on a trail leading toward the access road and the car. It took about fifteen minutes to reach the Impala, another eight frustrating minutes to drive to the main entrance of the park, pick the padlock, and remove the chain, and a final six minutes with his eyes on the compass getting back to the picnic area he wanted. By the time he pulled the car onto the grass and up next to the table, he was ready to piece the bunyip back together so he could blow it up again. After he'd skinned Bamapana and shoved him up its ass. Then he'd blow it up.

He limped to the table and put a hand on Dean's shoulder as he picked up the flashlight.

"It's me, Dean. Let's get you into the car."

Dean focused on him. "Stayed wake." He licked his lips. ""Really sleepy, Sam." He winced and his eyelids fluttered shut, the muscles in his face going slack.

"No, no, no! You can pass out in the car." He pulled him up to a sitting position. "Come on, man. Wake up." He lifted Dean's chin and pried an eyelid up. Dean's head started to roll to one side.

More carrying. At least it was only two steps to the car.

* * *

Sam jerked awake when he felt someone shake his shoulder. "Dean?" He opened his eyes and blinked a couple of times. How could he fall asleep? A man in a white coat was standing over him. Creepy. He started to yawn and was puzzled when he couldn't move his arm to cover his mouth. He looked down and saw a sling. And there was his bandaged arm. Right. Bunyip. Stitches.

He focused on the doctor's face. "Sorry, what?"

"Are you Sam … Morrison?"

He thought about that for a long minute. Yawned again. Nothing hurt. Excellent painkillers.

"Sure." He looked around the chairs, wondering if Dean had come out yet. He turned back to the doctor. "Yeah. Dean?"

"You're waiting for your … brother?" The doctor seemed almost … hopeful.

"Is he alright?"

"Mr. Morrison – has your brother always been … ummm, volatile?"

Sam corrected his first impression. The doctor sounded panicked. He nodded and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his left hand. He waved at the clipboard the doctor carried.

"Why do we even fill out the forms if no one reads them?"

He stood and stretched, relieved to be out of the hard chair. He looked down at the bald spot on top of the doctor's head. Sometimes, he really did feel like Gulliver in Lilliput.

The doctor flipped pages. "What did I miss?"

Sam pointed to the page as it went by. "Right there. See?"

The sound of shouting and glass breaking started to filter through the closed doors leading to the treatment bays.

The doctor read aloud, 'Temperamental when injured. Get his brother Sam from the waiting room'." He glanced toward the doors then back at up at Sam. "You can stop this?"

Sam nodded. "I'm the 'In Case of Emergency' guy."

He took a step forward and almost face planted. His leg should have come with him. He slapped his thigh in frustration and looked down. Another cast. Right. Ankle, foot. He couldn't even feel his leg. Awesome painkillers. He'd steal some before they left the hospital. He felt dizzy suddenly and had to squeeze his eyes shut. He reached for the wall.

He felt something on his arm and looked over, and down, to see a pair of nurses trying to pry his fingers off the doctor's head. He jerked his hand back, rocking the doctor back and forth like a buoy. "Shit, um, shoot, sorry. I'm sorry. I was aiming for the wall."

One of the nurses handed him a pair of crutches that had been leaning on the chair next to his. He'd forgotten those. too. He'd be a fool if he didn't steal the hospital's entire supply of whatever this painkiller was. He accepted the crutches – and man, the nurse was so tiny, it was like looking at someone on the ground from the window of an airplane. In flight.

Everyone winced at a crash and string of curses coming from behind the doors. He waved at the doctor. "After you," and crutched along in his path. The doctor was spending so much time trying to watch Sam over his shoulder, he almost walked into the "Authorized Personnel Only" doors. Sam couldn't remember if the doc had been that twitchy before. He'd apologized, hadn't he? He couldn't help it if he'd grabbed the guy's head.

He scanned the room but didn't see his brother. "Look, Doc, just in case he acts up again, could you make sure he gets a room I can stay in overnight?"

The doctor nodded and made some notations before pointing Sam toward the left. "I'll be there in just a … I've got to set up …" He looked toward a nursing station. "I'll be right with you."

He started down the hallway, and called out "Dean? I'm coming."

He heard "Sammy?" and then a petulant "I _told_ you he was here."

Sam hobbled around a corner and followed a trail of broken glass to a bay in the emergency room. Dean was in a hospital gown and glaring at an muscular orderly.

"Dean? Hey, they just let me in. What are you doing?" The orderly left them alone.

"Sammy. They shouldn't have let you sit in the waiting room by yourself and they wouldn't let me out of here." He turned his head and glared when a nurse stepped into the bay. "And they took my clothes."

Sam looked around and saw a plastic bag and a pair of boots stacked under the bed. "Your clothes are right here, man, right here. And what do you mean - by myself? Look at me and tell me how old I am."

Dean squinted. "Whaddya mean, how old? You're… crap, a concussion."

"Yeah. And, before you ask, you aren't leaving today. There's still some work … "

Dean looked down. "I know I'm not leaving." He jerked at his arms. "They won't take these off."

Sam looked down then up at the nurse. "You put him in restraints? I was just in the waiting room." He dropped his crutches and fumbled at a strap with his left hand until he could yank the velcro loose and leaned over to release the other. The nurse _tsked_ and moved toward the bed, but he glared at her until she darted out of the bay and dragged the curtain closed behind her.

Dean stretched his arms then rubbed his face. "Thanks, Sam." Dean eyes looked bruised. He was so pale Sam could count his freckles, a flush of fever high up on his cheeks, but he still checked Sam over and pointed at the sling. "Arm?"

"Yeah. And my foot. They finished with me a few minutes ago."

"I don't remem, uh, remember much." Dean hand dropped to his side. "My head hurts. Leg feels funny."

"Just relax, Dean."

"Don' let 'em tie me up again. Can't take the ropes …" His eyes were slipping shut, but he jerked them open, and grabbed at Sam's arm. "Spent too long … Don't let them."

"They'll have to come through me."

Dean had closed his eyes but that made him chuckle. "Whole lot of … you to go through." He breathed heavily through his nose but didn't say anything else.

Sam pulled the bag of clothes from under the bed, and sat down to open it. Dean's jeans had been cut up the hems by the ER staff and were now in two pieces. "Sorry about the jeans, man, I figured you could make shorts out of them." He found what he was looking for, still attached to the back belt loop. It took longer than it should have, since he was doing it left handed, but he finally undid the carabiner and held the little tag in his palm.

"What the? What is that?"

Sam glanced up. Dean's eyes were locked on the tag. Sam held up the tag for a second before he pushed it into his pocket. He pulled the child locator from his inside jacket pocket and showed it to Dean. "I lo-jacked you in case we got separated. I put this on your jeans while you were swimming. Thought you'd noticed."

Dean looked puzzled. "'Explain that to me again. Later." His eyes closed again.

Sam had just enough time to wonder where the nurse and the doctor were before the curtain was opened and the doctor stepped through with a hospital security guard on his heels, the nurse peeking out from around his back.

"Hey, Doctor." He leaned forward and read the name tag, "Dr. Choucheskou? Dean'll be quiet now."

"I want him back in restraints."

Sam glanced at Dean, sure he was still awake, but equally sure Dean trusted him with this. He stood, pleased to see that he had a couple of inches on the guard. He smiled winningly and took a step forward. "Why don't we talk about this in the hall? My brother is trying to sleep."

The doctor backed up a step but crossed his arms and looked up at Sam. "Your brother threatened the nurses and broke equipment. I'm glad you're here, but he needs to be in restraints."

"I won't allow restraints. That's not negotiable. I'll take him out of here and up to Oshkosh." He finally succeeded in shepherding the doctor, nurse and guard into the hall and closed the curtain.

"He broke equipment. Expensive equipment. Look at the glass."

The nurse darted forward and whispered in the doctor's ear. The guard looked bored.

"Doctor, my brother hurt his head. He's hallucinating or something. He doesn't even remember the bear attacking him." He frowned for a second, and decided to change tactics. He could play a role as well as any hunter, and he was very familiar with the role he had in mind. He allowed his shoulders to drop, and put his hands in his pockets. He looked pleadingly at the doctor. "Could you tell me if he's going to be OK?" He looked at the nurse and guard before gazing earnestly back at the doctor. "There was so much blood. And he's in a lot of pain. Has he had _any_ treatment?"

"We weren't able to get an IV established. He insisted his brother, his 'little' brother, was alone in the waiting room." The doctor rubbed his temples, looked at the nurse and back. "We'd like to surgically explore the leg wounds, but," he held up a hand, preempting Sam's exclamation, "we are going to get him stabilized for twenty-four hours before we decide. We don't want to anesthetize him immediately due to the concussion."

He checked the chart, and looked up at Sam. "If that changes, or his fever spikes, we may have to reconsider. But for now, we want to start him on a transfusion, analgesics, antibiotics, and fluids. If you can get him to let us put in the IV lines and start treatment, we won't restrain him. If he fights the machines, or the staff, we'll reconsider that decision."

"As long as I can stay with him, he'll be fine." Sam looked back toward the curtain. "He hasn't had anything for pain yet? No wonder he's cranky."

The doctor stared at him. "Cranky?" He laughed out loud. "Cranky. Fine. Let's make him less cranky right now."

* * *

A/N: The child locator can be found in my story, _OBX_. And some of you will recognize my drabble, ICE, tucked away in here.


	7. Be Glad the Bunyip is Dead

A/N: Welcome to the final chapter. I thank everyone for their reviews, alerts, and favorites. If you have not reviewed, please consider doing so. I'd love to hear what you think.

A/N 2: Aside from the bunyip, nothing Australian was hurt in the production of this story unless it is through my attempt to catch the flavor of their accent and slang. No insult would ever be intended.

* * *

As soon as he put the car in Park, Sam limped over to open their hotel room door. He limped back to the car and grabbed Dean's crutches from the front seat, before opening the back door and shaking Dean's shoulder.

"Up and at 'em, Dean. We're here."

Dean's head came up. He yawned and waved off Sam's outstretched arm. "I got it." He got his good leg down, and stood, dragging his left leg out of the car. He hopped backwards, and lost his balance.

Sam caught him, and brought him upright. "Let me help."

Dean gritted out, "This sucks" and reached out a hand to grab for the crutches. His leg was wrapped from his crotch to below the knee, metal struts holding the leg straight. And he was tripping on painkillers. Sam sighed and held him until he was steady and set up on his crutches.

"The room is straight ahead."

If they hadn't bent Dean's knee a little bit before they wrapped the leg, Sam had no idea how he would be able to walk, crutch or no crutch. They reached the curb by the sidewalk and Dean stopped. Sam waited impatiently until he felt Dean shake a little, then looked over in alarm before he realized Dean was laughing.

"Just try to keep moving forward. I'll steer."

"You mean up?" Dean negotiated the step, still laughing. "See, I got it." He looked around blearily. "Where we goin'?"

"Forward, Dean, just move forward." They reached the door, and Sam brushed past Dean to turn and help pull him into the room. "Just a few more steps."

He got his brother to his bed, and helped him take off his jacket and over shirt. He tugged off Dean's boots, and helped him stand to remove the sweatpants he'd worn home from the hospital.

Dean swatted at his hands. "Just got dressed a minute ago."

"You have an appointment or something I don't know about? You're stuck to that bed for a few more days."

Dean looked mulish. "Keep the pants on."

Sam helped him sit back down, and said, "Whatever."

Dean smelled his armpit. "Need a shower, dude." He tried to stand up, but Sam easily tipped him back against the headboard and packed some pillows behind him.

"You can have a shower tomorrow." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stay still. Just have to get a few things from the car." He headed for the door, but stopped when he heard Dean say his name. "What?"

"What happened to the sheep? There was a sheep."

"I placed an anonymous call. Someone will pick her up." He ducked out and only felt a twinge in his arm as he grabbed Dean's duffle and the bag of prescription meds from the front seat. He locked up the car, and headed back in, closing the door behind him. Dean was looking down at his hands.

"You OK, man?"

"Just checking my fingers. Nothing broke. How's your leg?"

Sam glanced down at his wrapped foot. "Fine. Hardly hurts at all. It's mostly this boot they told me to wear."

"Arm OK? You need something, I got primo painkillers."

"It's fine. I can take the stitches out in a day or two. And I know about the painkillers. Same stuff I had." Sam powered up his laptop and looked back at his brother. "Good stuff, isn't it?"

Dean looked up. Sam could almost see the wheels slowly turning. "Oxycontin."

"You a connoisseur of narcotics, now?" Sam huffed out a laugh. "Of course you are."

Dean quirked up one side of his mouth and blinked slowly. "_'Connoisseur_.'" He rubbed his eyes, yawning. "Why'm I so tired?"

Sam sighed. "That is a puzzle, 'cause after all, you slept like a baby when your fever spiked to 104. And don't forget, jerking awake with nightmares twenty times a night was restful. For both of us."

Dean grimaced and leaned his head back. "Sarcastic, much? Sorry if I kept you up."

"Dean, that's not…" He stopped. "In the ER, you freaked at the restraints. Is that, was that… Did that happen to you in Hell?"

Dean focused on Sam's face. "No, it's just, they're no reference points, no way to… I said I wouldn't lie, but I won't talk about it. Drop it." He closed his eyes and turned his head away.

Sam got a glass of water from the kitchenette and walked over to sit on the other bed facing Dean. He went through the bottles and pulled out a handful of pills. "You probably haven't slept a whole night since the bunyip. So take your pills and take a nap." He handed Dean the glass and the pills.

He booted up the laptop but couldn't concentrate. He walked back to the bed. "Dean?" He didn't see a reaction and tried again. "Dean?" He sat down on the bed next to his brother.

Dean cracked his eyes open, his pupils like pinheads. "What?" He reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and missed, almost knocking it on the floor. Sam held the glass while he took a few sips. Dean leaned back on the pillows, his eyes slipping shut.

"Dean."

"Hmmm?"

"I need to tell you something. You awake?"

"No, sound asleep, smartass. I'm uh, this … painkiller, man. Can't think. Talk later."

"Just listen."

Dean rubbed his face. "Tol' you. Don' wanna talk about the Pit. Leave it alone."

"When you are ready to talk, I'll listen. I don't know what else I can do for you… but something's got to give."

"Don' want you to do anything. And I'm not your responsib, sponsa … sponsability."

"Yes, you are. Ever since you came back, you haven't been … the nightmares, the drinking. Angelic visitations. You have to talk to someone. We can't hunt when you're drunk. So talk to me. About anything. I'll listen."

Dean lifted a hand, but dropped it again. "You don' know what you're sayin'." He looked away for a moment, then back at Sam. "An' you're still a girl." He swallowed. Sam helped him drink a few more sips of water.

"Nice, Dean."

Dean mumbled something he couldn't make out, and went still. Sam waited until his breathing steadied and lengthened, watched as the pinched looked around Dean's eyes smoothed out, and his jaw finally relaxed, letting his mouth drop open. He waited another five minutes until he heard it, a tiny click on every exhalation, a leftover from a meeting of Dean's teenage face with a brick wall.

He set his phone to chime in two hours and plugged it into the charger. After swallowing a couple of ibuprofen, he climbed onto his own bed, toed off his shoes, and fell asleep just as he was thinking he should get under a blanket.

* * *

Dean eye's snapped open, the all too familiar sounds of anguished screams echoing in his ears. Hell was, just hell, lurking in the corner of his eyes, gone when he looked for it, choking his breath off if he let his guard down. He lay still, listening for anything out of place. Sam was breathing on the next bed, asleep from the sound of it. The room was almost dark. Nothing out of place. His leg was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. There was a disgustingly cheerful chirping noise coming from the bedside table. He slapped his hand around until he found Sam's phone and silenced the alarm. He rubbed his face, and heaved himself to the edge of the bed, swinging his right leg off the bed, and dragging the left one onto the floor with his hands. He held his head as the room spun momentarily. When he raised his head he spotted his crutches on the far side of the room.

Sam would get pissy if he woke him up just to help him take a piss. Dean stood on his good leg and gingerly set his left foot on the floor. Not bad. He slid his left leg forward and set it down. No problem. He hopped his right leg forward to meet it. Tolerable. A few more steps and he'd have the crutches. He got about half way before he put too much weight on his on his left leg. Not so tolerable. He sucked in air and shook his hands, breathing like a bellows, trying to ride it out.

He felt a hand at his elbow and leaned onto the support. "Thanks."

"Welcome, mate."

He jerked away from the touch and pivoted on his good leg, looking for the threat. All he saw Sam, still sprawled on the bed. Nothing else.

"Sam! Wake up."

He hopped toward the bed, and leaned over to grab Sam's ankle and shake it. "Sam?" He heard something behind him, and came up quickly and off balance. His left leg went out to one side and down he went, falling half on and half off the bed, his nose pressed into Sam's right sock. He waited for Sam to wake up, bitch, and help him up but his brother slept on, breathing slow and regular.

He got himself up on one elbow. There was still nothing in the room. Must be the Oxy. He smacked Sam's leg again. What was wrong with Sam? Dean checked Sam's pulse at the wrist. Strong and steady. Maybe Sam got into the painkillers? Had a stroke, hidden brain injury, heart attack … Dean _had_ to get up.

He felt a strong pair of arms picking him up from behind, like he was a doll or something. He drove an elbow back and connected with – nothing. He tried to struggle, but there was nothing there to fight against. Just strong hands getting him up and seated right next to Sam's feet.

"Quit fighting me, you asinine lummox. Sleeping beauty is fine."

"Bamapana." He sighed. "Well, isn't this fucking cozy? What are you doing here? Sam killed the bunyip, I can talk again … and why can't I see you, you little freak?"

The Trickster appeared in one of the chairs. He was perched at the edge, swinging his feet back and forth.

"I wanted a chance to talk to you without the skyscraper nosing in."

"Who _isn't_ a skyscraper to you, you little pervert? Are you keeping Sam asleep?"

"Be glad you have your voice back."

"Be glad the bunyip is dead. How can a Trickster be such a pansy?"

Bamapana grinned. "Got me in to see you two without a stake in my back. And you were going to hunt it anyway."

Dean sighed. "So, Tattoo. Just what the hell was this all about."

The little guy stared at him. "Tattoo?"

"'Da plane! Da plane!'" Dean didn't see a spark of recognition in the man's face. "_Fantasy Island_? Come on, you've got to have seen that." Dean watched something almost like hurt flicker across Bamapana's face.

"That' guy? I've got six inches on him a least." Bamapana stood and dragged his chair in front of the mirror mounted over the dresser. He climbed back up on it to look at himself. "I really look that short to you, ya bounce?"

Dean looked down, trying to suppress a snort of laughter. So, the little guy was vain. He pulled up a corner of the comforter and tugged it over Sam. "Why me? Why us? Why everything?"

The small man turned from the mirror and sat down again, looking almost embarrassed. "Heard a lot about you two. Thought you and your brother would be perfect. So I set up a little meet and greet."

"Heard about me and Sam? You could have picked any hunter. And you could have just asked."

"What would be the fun in that? And I wanted to meet you. Back from Hell - who can say that? And the guys with feathers? Dean, you moron, you are more powerful than you know. Hard as it is for me to say, but these days, you talk, people listen. And a lot of us don't want you talking about what happened in Florida."

Dean stared at him then burst out laughing. "Nobody listens to me. Even when I'm right." He thought for a second. "You mean Broward County? The _Mystery_ Spot. It was a load of crap. The only thing there was that goddamn Trickster … Oh."

Bamapana nodded and tapped his finger against his nose. "You're as slow as a nun's orgasm, but you do eventually get there."

"That was a clusterfuck if ever there was one. And I still don't know how Sam convinced me to go anywhere near the damn state. In February. We never even went to a beach. And he got the bed with the Magic Fingers." That still smarted. He glared at the Trickster. "But what business is this of yours, Tiny Tim? I don't remember squat and Sam's barely said a word. If he won't tell me, who the hell would he tell?"

"Tiny Tim? Shine, Winchester. Is there really a porn version of _A Christmas Carol_? You don't have a habit of keeping your damn mouth shut, so how would anyone know you were going to stay quiet? Maybe Sam has been whispering to his black-eyed skank?"

"Sam? Pillow talk with a demon? You've got to be …" He drew himself up short. He suddenly felt nauseated. "Sam wouldn't talk hunts, about me, with a demon." He rolled that around in his mouth thinking of the months prior to the deal. "Strike that." He slapped Sam's foot. "It doesn't matter anyway."

"If word gets back to the hellspawn it does. Demons aren't usually a problem for us. We are as old as they are and powerful." He patted his staff. "But any Trickster would have problems with a pack of the fuckers, and that's what we have topside now. If we appear weak, if they think we give in to any weepy human, even a psychotic one, they'll make our lives … _difficult_. And we hate difficult."

"Sam was never psychotic." This time Bamapana snorted. "Never mind, I get it. I'll make sure Sam does, too." He rubbed his face. "Is there anything else, 'cause I really need to take a leak."

The little guy handed him his crutches. "I'll wait."

Crap. "Wake up Sam first. I'm not leaving him alone with you."

"He's going to be a right bastard about all of this. All pissy or all emo."

"You Trickster types like sweet stuff – give him some candy. Always worked for me."

He shook Sam's foot through the comforter. "Sammy, wake up. Bamapana's here…', and that's as far as he got. His brother came up and off the bed like a rocket, kicking the comforter off his legs and slamming a foot right into Dean's bad leg.

* * *

Sam practically levitated off the bed when Dean said the Trickster was in the room. How that could have happened without him waking up… But it was nothing to the panic of opening his eyes to see Dean groan, lean forward, and fall off the bed.

"Dean!" He was on his feet, and placing himself between his brother and the little man in a fluid movement. He pushed the Trickster back. "What did you do to him?"

"Me? It was your giant foot that did that." Bamapana's eyes widened comically. "You really _are_ a freak of nature. Feet like a hobbit, and yeah, yeah," he held up a hand, "I know about them. Couldn't stop hearing about them. Those bloody actors were in New Zealand for fucking YEARS."

Sam smiled brightly at the Trickster and held up his hands. "Everything important is in proportion to the feet and hands, right, little man? And look at your little tiny feet. What does that say about you?"

That shut Bamapana for two seconds. Sam kept his head down and did his best to ignore the Trickster as he helped Dean back up onto the bed. Dean tried to wave him off, but with his immobile leg, he wasn't going to get up easily. Sam glanced at the clock. "Six hours? I was out for six hours? What did you do to me?"

The Trickster smiled. "Kept you asleep for a bit while Dean and I had a conversation."

"What the hell did you talk about?" Bamapana didn't answer, just waved Sam's attention back to his brother. Dean's breathing was still ragged but starting to slow down. "Dean, how you doing? You need to take these." He held out painkillers and antibiotics and watched Dean until he'd swallowed the pills.

Bamapana grinned. "He needs to take a piss, you big dick."

"_That's_ what you talked about?" Sam glared at him, then looked at Dean. "Is that true?"

Dean blushed. "Yeah, I do."

Sam retrieved the crutches and helped him to the john. Dean wouldn't let him in, so he waited outside, swiveling his head to look at the door, and then at Bamapana, and back to the door.

When Dean finally came out, white faced and sweating, Sam offered an arm, but Dean swayed past him. Sam got to the bed first, and helped Dean settle back against the headboard.

Sam'd had his back to the Trickster, keeping between himself between it and his brother, so it was a surprise to turn around and see his bed covered in bright packages. The table had chafing dishes and plates loaded with cakes and cookies. The smell of sugar was taking over the room. He sat down heavily next to Dean. Who hit his back.

"Wha's going on? Move. Lemme see!"

Bamapana grinned at them both. "A thank you from me." He looked at Sam then stage whispered to Dean, "Is that pissy or emo?"

Dean considered Sam and raised his right eyebrow. "Both. Candy will help." Sam huffed in annoyance. When Dean tried to heave himself upright, Sam held him down by simply leaving one hand on his chest.

"Going somewhere?

"Wanna see the pie."

Dean sounded all of five to Sam's ears. He had to laugh. God, he still loved his brother on narcotics. "I'll bring you pie. Just wait till the painkillers kick in." He checked Dean's pupils. "And they have." He looked at the Trickster. "What is everthing?"

"Arnott's Mint Slices, Black Forest, Cherry Ripe, Jaffa's, ummm, Polly Waffles, Violet Crumbles, four kinds of Tim Tams, and some Fruit Tingles." The Trickster handed Sam a Violet Crumble. "Try this, kid, should be sweet enough for you."

Sam unwrapped it warily, sniffed it, and bit in. Honey, chocolate, and so sweet his teeth hurt. God, it was like heaven on a stick. He closed his eyes in ecstasy. "Dean, you've got to try this."

Dean hit his back again. "Get me some _pie_."

Bamapana pointed at the table. "We have pav, frog cake, lamington's, and vanilla slice."

Sam translated for Dean. "Cake, cake that looks like _frogs_, um, cake with powdered sugar, and cake that kinda looks like a napoleon."

Dean's eyes were only half open, but he smiled. "Where's pie?"

Bamapana opened one of the chafing dishes. "Pie floater."

Sam stood and walked over to take a look. He looked in the dish, and sniffed. He whispered, "That is not pie."

"Meat pie, pea soup, tomato sauce on top. You've got to try it."

Sam gulped. "I can't do that to him. Isn't there some kind of fruit between layers of pastry?"

"Try him on the pav", pointing at a tall white confection covered in fruit.

Dean liked the pavlova as soon as Sam described it as Australian meringue pie. After experimenting with some of the other food, Dean explained in a slurred voice that vegemite on toast, which he'd tried at Bamapana's urging as an Australian favorite, should only be used to repair flat tires. He was instantly sorry and proceeded to apologize to Three Dog Night, Russell Crow, and Mel Gibson but only, he explained seriously, to Mel pre _Passion of the Christ_. Bamapana took no offense, pointing out that Gibson was an American by birth, and that explained both _Passion_ and _Apocalypto_. Sam pondered that but had drawn no rebuttal before the Trickster got up to take his leave.

This time Dean did get up. Sam was so full of food that he was almost inert. Dean took two hops and met Bamapana by the door. Sam was pretty sure they thought he couldn't hear them, but the Trickster was too egotistical to lower his voice, and Dean was too stoned to know how loud he was.

"I don't ever want to see you again, you fucking dwarf."

"Back at you, you piece of shit ingrate. You'll remember what you promised?"

"I'll take care of it, but if you forget and come near me or my brother again, staking won't be good enough. Remember, I have friends. In high places." He grinned. "_And_ in low places." Dean started to laugh, and looked down to fix his constricted pupils on Bamapana. "Get my drift?"

Sam had to give it to his brother. Dean was barely upright but still had the menace mojo just baking off him. He stood and walked to stand behind his brother. He could do menacing. After all, he'd learned from the best.

"I'm going. But I have a special present for Dean."

"Oh, fuck. Not more?"

Sam had to grab Dean's biceps when he tried to reach for the nonexistent gun at his back and swayed backwards, then dangerously forward.

Bamapana handed a leather bag to Dean. "Your own mojo bag."

Sam stepped forward as Dean took the bag with a ridiculous grin on his face. "For me? You didn't get one for Sam? This is just for me?"

"Just for you." The little man looked from one to the other. "You know how to reach me. I owe you." He cleared his throat and looked up. "If you ever do end up in bed, you'll call me, won't you? Promise? It'll keep me up nights if you don't promise."

Sam held onto Dean with one hand, and opened the door and pushed the Trickster out with the other. "You'll be the first to know. We promise." He didn't slam the door shut, just closed it deliberately.

After a few minutes of watching Dean melt into the mattress, Sam pulled the bag from his unresisting fingers. Dean muttered something he couldn't make out.

"I'll give it right back."

A picture of a kangaroo was burned into the leather on both sides. Intrigued, he opened the bag and took out a card from the manufacturer. He read the card, and laughed out loud.

Dean's eyes opened a crack. "Wha's so funny?"

"I'll tell you in the morning." Sam put the bag back in Dean's hand, and watched his brother's eyes slip shut.

He unwrapped another Violet Crumble and booted up the laptop. Tomorrow morning, he'd find out what Dean's reaction to a bag made out of kangaroo scrotum leather would be. Now that? That would almost make this screwed up hunt worthwhile.

* * *

Thanks everyone for reading. This month marks the anniversary of posting the first chapter of my very first fan fiction story. I wanted to thank all of you for making this year such an awesome ride. Phoebe


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